


A Song in Your Heart

by HawkSong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aether Sex (Final Fantasy XIV), Anal Sex, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Hatred, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 132,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: Nightbird's first official concert in Ishgard goes wellAnd then she meets the Azure DragoonPlease be aware that Chapter 20 involves rape; I have placed a content warning on the chapter itself as well.
Relationships: Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 104
Kudos: 142





	1. Outsider

The crowd murmured as the conductor turned to face them. Behind him, the players tuned their instruments with care and the two violinists shifted their narrow chairs just a touch, making a space.

“It has been some years since we here in Ishgard welcomed newcomers,” the conductor began, his voice flowing across the room. “Longer still since we have heard new songs, new voices. So long, in fact, that I shall not make you all wait one more minute to hear our new voice. Please, join me in welcoming Lady Kevala, the songstress lately of Limsa Lominsa, and now of Ishgard.”

Polite applause sprang up, and Nightbird stepped out onto the low stage from behind the screen where she had been hidden from the audience.

Whispers, murmurs, and and outright gasp or two – about the reaction she had expected. These people were cold and insular, their land even colder and more unwelcoming, and yet – she knew they could be warmed. She knew she had the skill to reach at least some of them.

But her goal tonight was to let them hear her, to do justice to the music. Song was its own kind of healing magic, after all.

The conductor smiled at her, and turned to his players, lifting his hands. He gave her two bars, and Nightbird took her cue, flawlessly. The eight players had had only a single rehearsal with her, but they were skilled professionals, and she trusted them.

From the first note that sailed out across the room, she knew which of her audience were music lovers – which were the ones most receptive to her efforts. Heads nodded, smiles appeared, and their eyes were shining. This group of Ishgardian nobles often attended concerts whenever House Haillenarte hosted such, and so she'd expected a warm reception. Yet even here there were a small number of faces who were blank with surprise or carefully closed. The ones who hadn't expected her voice, the ones who held back, waiting to decide what they thought of this upstart, this newcomer, this _foreigner with furry ears and a_ _ **tail**_.

She concentrated on her song, willing them to hear her – more than that. Praying that they would hear the music, and see past how strange she might look to their eyes.

 _Use your heart to see_ , the song's lyrics ran, and she poured her power into it. These men and women had the power to change the world around them, to change their city, their children's futures. They had known only war for so very long. She knew them, knew them in ways they couldn't understand. If they could learn to see with their hearts, past their traditions...

Change was coming to Ishgard, whether they willed it or no. The Warrior of Light strode their streets and they knew not what chaos would follow. They would need all the help and encouragement they could get to survive.

Her power reached out into the room and brushed across them all, softer than owl feathers caressing the air. She focused, limiting that touch, allowing only the merest dip into their aether. She could have them all, heart and soul, right here and now. She could render them hers on a level to rival any primal...if she wanted to court madness and sow more of the same. She didn't _want_ to sink into them and hear them all in her head.

No, she needed only to hear the fears that floated topmost in their minds, just under the skin of enjoyment. Knowing those fears opened doors for her, some of them doors she could use, to weave her own whispers into their minds.

Smoothly she moved into the next song, another ballad of love – appropriate to the theme of the concert – but this one was decidedly less noble than the first. However, it was also in a tongue that the Ishgardians weren't likely to be familiar with; Bizet was hardly known even in the northern parts of Gridania. She chose not to reinforce the risque tones implicit in the piece; presenting it merely as an art song allowed her to concentrate more fully on the audience anyway.

She plucked the emotions from just under the surface, and wasn't surprised at what she found – only at how honest these folks were inside their own heads. Their fears were common enough – worries about loved ones, about status, about schemes large and small. Would their spouse discover their secret lover, would the gossip about their daughter prevent her from making a good match – the usual sorts of concerns. Details were fuzzy but she wasn't, after all, digging for such details.

The one fear she had expected to find – fear of death – was conspicuous in its absence.

And it wasn't that they didn't believe they'd die, either. They all of them knew that death would come for them one way or another, and they even knew there was a good chance they might die in dragon fire. But it held no terror for them.

She nearly faltered her line when she realized it. _They weren't afraid to die_. They didn't embrace it – but they _accepted_ it, on a level as deep as their shared faith, too deep to shake. Incredible. Was this what being at war for a thousand years did to a people?

There was a brief break between songs, and she gladly accepted the chance to reorient herself, drink a swallow of water, and marshal her thoughts.

The Ishgardians didn't fear death, or even physical pain. Hardship was to them like an old neighbor, not exactly welcome but well-known. No, what they feared now was – exactly what was happening around them already. The breaking down of walls and of ways, the state of affairs that allowed an outsider like her to even be here the way she was. Not a traveling singer, here for a night then gone – no, she was in truth becoming the Songstress of Ishgard, bard-in-residence. Such a thing would never have been imagined, a year ago. Beneath the calm exteriors, beside their minor worries, even the most placid of these nobles felt a quaking terror unlike anything they'd ever endured.

 _Change_.

She took the stage once more. The next piece involved a fairly lengthy instrumental section, and she let her “presence” fade back a little, casting her eyes down and looking over the room from beneath her lashes, hoping to gauge the audience in a less emotional way.

Two men caught her eye – seated at the right hand of Lord Haillenarte.

The dark haired one wore ornate robes featuring a golden dragon that seemed to coil about his shoulders; given what she knew, he had to be the vaunted Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. She had yet to formally meet the man – Lord Haillenarte as her current patron did not need to answer to the Lord Commander over a mere singer, after all. But the whispers she had heard were fascinating, and certainly his actions even in the short months she'd been working her way into Ishgard had shown him to be a man of surpassing honor and compassion.

But her eyes lingered far longer on his companion. By his ornate armor she knew him to be the Azure Dragoon, though she did not know his name; by his somewhat bored expression she knew him not to be much of a music lover.

Wearing armor to a concert seemed...odd, but the man had at least removed his helmet, and she was glad of it. Silver-white hair fell straight and lustrous past his shoulders. He had cheekbones that surely made maidens swoon, and his eyes...

She caught herself before she truly began to stare at him, but a shiver went through her. He had _noticed_ her looking at him, and those silver eyes had sharpened into a gaze so hot and piercing she felt as if her gown must have two little scorch marks on it.

She attended to her song, deliberately avoiding looking at him throughout the rest of the piece.

The concert finished out with an arrangement of a favorite hymn – a rare one not praising Halone as the Fury. This hymn showed her softer face, kneeling beside a fallen knight. “I shall take you home,” Nightbird sang, imbuing the words with all the tenderness of a mother comforting her injured child. “You have done well, and you will walk beside me in my halls. Lay down your sword, for it is time to rest, to sleep.”

For one moment as the last note faded, the room was utterly silent: the greatest compliment, that deep silence that made the musician know she had left her audience speechless. She looked out over the room, and smiled, content. Every eye was shining.

“Truly, you must have a remarkable memory, my lady.”

“Yes, I do indeed,” and the dowager of House Dzemael chortled a little, well pleased.

Nightbird sipped at the wine in her glass, barely wetting her lips, as the old woman drew breath to natter on about some other past performance.

But she was interrupted by a polite young man with flaming red hair – one of the younger cousins within the Haillenarte family, if Nightbird had to guess. He murmured to the old dowager, who fluttered her fan and then smiled at the boy. “Of course, lad, of course. I'll be right along.”

It was all Nightbird could do to hold her polite smile as the dowager turned back to face her. “That son of mine is calling for me, I'm afraid.”

“Alas,” Nightbird murmured, casting her eyes down a bit. “But all things must come to an end.”

“You may be sure that I'll attend your next performance,” the dowager told her, fluttering her fan again, wafting her overly sweet perfume over the singer. Nightbird held her breath a little to keep from sneezing. “But for the nonce, good night!”

Nightbird bent her head and watched through her lashes as the old woman moved off. Then she took a long, slow breath, and let it out in a silent sigh. She had yet to meet a member of the Dzemael family who wasn't overbearing, arrogant, or otherwise irritating. Her face hurt a little from the effort of maintaining that so-polite smile while the old woman had held forth on performances from decades ago, as if she were some sort of scholar of music. If her words had held any wisdom, Nightbird might not have minded the endless chatter, but the woman had merely repeated opinions over and over.

Lord Haillenarte approached her as she lifted her head again, and this time she didn't need to force her smile. The old lord was frail, and his eldest son handled most of the day-to-day work of handling House affairs, but he was as endlessly kind as the Dowager Dzemael had been endlessly shallow. Behind him paced Ser Aymeric and the silver haired dragoon.

“Mistress Kevala,” the white-haired lord said with a smile, “May I introduce Ser Aymeric de Borel, our Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard? And this,” he nodded to the dragoon, “is our esteemed Azure Dragoon, Ser Estinien Wyrmblood.”

Nightbird curtsied, and smiled at both men. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Ser Aymeric, Ser Estinien,” she said. “I have heard much and more of the Lord Commander and the Azure Dragoon.”

She didn't miss Estinien's snort, but Ser Aymeric took her hand and bowed over it, his lips barely brushing her knuckles. He smiled as he released her, and she saw that his eyes were an intense blue. “A pleasure indeed,” he answered. “I must admit, I did not know quite what to expect when I arrived this evening. I was most impressed with your performance, Mistress Kevala.”

She dipped her head slightly, a polite fiction of demurral. “Quite a compliment, sir.”

He grinned. “I was also most amused by your song choices. It is not often one hears Bizet in the same evening as a hymn to Halone.”

Nightbird's ears flicked back, then forward, and her tail curved upward, an S of curiosity. “How unusual,” she commented, but her smile widened. “I would not have expected a military man of Ishgard to be so familiar with southern composers.”

“I am familiar with quite a bit more than that,” he chuckled, and the conversation might have continued in such a vein – if someone had not come up and cleared his throat.

Nightbird didn't recognize the newcomer's colors, but Ser Aymeric gave him immediate attention, and then turned back to Lord Haillenarte. “I must step away for a time, pray forgive me.”

“Your duty calls you,” the old lord said with a smile. “Take your time, Ser Aymeric.”

Nightbird echoed the old lord's smile as Ser Aymeric glanced at her. With a small bow to the both of them, he turned and walked away. Lord Haillenarte looked over at her. “I have a few more people to speak with,” he began, and she nodded.

“Please, I'll be fine right where I am.”

He nodded and stepped away, lifting one hand to greet some other lord, leaving her there alone.

Alone, that is, except for the Azure Dragoon, who had stood silently through all the conversation. Nightbird pretended to drink her wine again, looking at him through her lashes. He was giving her an openly appraising look, and she decided that she'd return the favor.

She lowered her glass and let her eyes travel over him. The armor he wore made it difficult to be certain, but he seemed to be lean and wiry in build, with broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was even more lovely up close than it had been from across the room. His lips were thin, his nose decidedly aristocratic, and his eyes...

She found herself fascinated by them. Blue, but a pale icy blue, and hawk-like in how sharp their gaze felt as he watched her. No longer scorching, he regarded her with a cool interest.

“And did you enjoy the music as well, Ser Estinien?” she asked politely.

“I suppose it was pleasant enough,” he said curtly. “I am not much familiar with the twittering of little birds.”

She blinked, a little taken aback by his answer. “Then why attend?” she asked, curious rather than offended.

“Because Aymeric would not come alone.”

“Are you good friends with the Lord Commander, then?”

“Obviously.” His eyes dropped a little, and he asked, “Do you control that thing, or does it have a mind of its own?”

Her tail snapped back and forth for a moment as she stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“That tail. Is it under your control, or not?”

“And why should I answer such a patently rude question, I wonder?”

His grin was sharp, and he all but barked with laughter. “Rude or not, it is a fair question. You resemble a cat, but is the resemblance more than skin deep?”

Her ears went flat. “I shall not dignify that with a reply.”

He stepped close to her, crowding into her space. She held her ground and glared up at him, even though he towered over her more than most Ishgardian men. He leaned down just a bit and lowered his voice. “Perhaps you would prefer to demonstrate to me the extent of your...differences?”

Her eyes went wide and her lips parted to show a bit of fang. “You presume a very great deal, dragoon.”

“I am well known for being presumptuous,” he chuckled. “If you are not afraid to be alone with such a rude and presumptuous man, meet me in an hour at the Forgotten Knight.”

Then he stood straight, and bowed deeply to her before turning on his heel and leaving.

She stared after him, her heart pounding, unable to decide if she was furious with his outrageous questions or intrigued by his obvious interest in her.

The reception had ended, and Nightbird made her way to the little room provided for her within the sprawling manor house. She had collected quite a few cards from various nobles – each one showing a true interest in her music. If she were intending to remain here temporarily, she would have been over the moon at such a wild success. Her long term goal, though, found the response a touch lacking. Time enough, she reassured herself. She had to find a true patron, yes, but she had time in hand to do so. She would establish herself here, she would have a base of operations in Ishgard, and she'd be able to take on more responsibilities.

She settled the cards in a little cedar box she kept for such things, and got out of her gown, hanging the delicate thing up carefully. She started to remove the silk underthings, then paused and instead reached for a plain linen skirt and a simple linen tunic. Slipping on her old-but-presentable felt dress shoes, she stepped back out into the hall.

She left the manor by the servants' door, and from there made her way to the Forgotten Knight.

The tavern was in the more run-down part of the city, but Nightbird strode without fear down the dingy streets. Even though she had been here less than a week, already the criminals of the Brume knew better than to harass her. She wasn't _only_ a songstress, after all.

She walked into the tavern, and stepped up to the bar. Gibrillont grinned at her, and leaned across the bar to collect a kiss on the cheek. “You've a friend tonight?” he murmured.

“Possibly,” she chuckled. “Do you have any of that lovely blackberry cordial left?”

“Saved the last bottle just for you, love,” he laughed, and fished under the bar for a moment. She set her coins down on the bar and accepted the bottle from him and a pair of wooden mugs.

When she turned around, Ser Estinien was standing behind her, just beyond arm's reach. His armor was gone, and he wore instead a simple, light blue shirt and a pair of leather pants.

He eyed the bottle in her hand.

“Shall we talk here,” she asked him, “or did you have some other, more secluded spot in mind?”

His lips twitched, and he turned and walked away. She followed after him, not minding the view at all. The pants he wore were tight enough to _really_ compliment his rear, and her mind painted obscene fantasies for a moment.

He led them to one of the inn rooms, and Nightbird stepped inside as he bowed to her, ignoring the sardonic smile on his lips. She heard him shut the door and lock it, but she simply stepped over to the table and set down the bottle and the mugs.

Her ears twitched a little as she listened to his soft footsteps coming up behind her, and she turned around in time to catch him reaching up towards her head.

She lifted her hand and caught his wrist. “I think not, sir dragoon.”

He raised his eyebrows, but didn't force the issue. Instead he let his hand fall away, and looked down at her, speculation in those ice-blue eyes.

She moved to stand beside the table, putting a little distance between them, and reached for the bottle.

He took it from her, and glanced at the label. “Hmph,” he snorted, and opened it.

Nightbird watched him pour each mug half full, and took one of them before speaking. “Are you always so...charming? Or am I being given special treatment, here?”

He chuckled. “I do not care to waste my time with polite fictions. I say what I mean to say.”

She drank, savoring the sweet sting of the wine, and regarded him. “One wonders how much success you have with the ladies of this city, given such a habit.”

He scowled and quaffed half the wine in his own mug. “None, because they are all a waste of my time.”

“Ah.” She took another sip. “How do you know I am not also a waste of your time, then, Ser Estinien?”

“At the very least, you are already more interesting than any of them.”

“Such a high compliment,” Nightbird said dryly. “At the risk of sounding like I'm fishing for more sweet words, what's so interesting about me?”

To her surprise, he looked away and was silent for a long moment. She drank her wine, just watching him. He had seemed very stiff at the reception, and even now he was holding back, guarded. Tense? Nervous?

He drank the rest of his own wine, and spoke, looking at the table and not at her. “I am not one for music, usually,” he said. “As I told you, I attended because of Aymeric. And yet somehow, your song affected me.”

She opened her mouth, but he spoke again, and she held her peace.

“That hymn is not one I have heard often.” She heard the hitch in his voice, saw his eyes tighten. “And never has it...been like _that_.”

“Every heart has at least one song inside of it,” she said softly.

“I never would have believed that of my own heart.” He looked up and met her eyes, and her breath stopped for a moment at the pain she saw. “Not until tonight.”

She finished her wine. “My,” she managed, her voice lilting, as she set the mug down. “When you do give a compliment...”

“How do you do that?”

“Hm? Do what?”

“You...sang without singing.”

She looked at him, and smiled. The pain was gone, or hidden at least, and now he looked quite fascinated.

“I suppose it's just something I do from time to time,” she answered.

“Do it again?”

She hummed a bit, pleased and intrigued by this sudden change.

“Now why does it fascinate you so?” She put a pulse of power behind the words, and watched his face.

He set his mug down and leaned in toward her. “I have never heard anything quite like that.”

“Well, you did already say you aren't much of one for music. Yet you seem to have a good ear.”

He quirked his eyebrows at her, a puzzled sort of chuckle escaping him. “I _listen_ , certainly. But most of the time, I am listening for danger. Not for...”

“Beauty?” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “How sad. Is there no time in a dragoon's day for a moment of simple appreciation?”

He leaned away, his jaw tightening, and she frowned. His voice was again somewhat sarcastic as he answered. “No. There is not.”

Silence fell between them, and she poured more wine. Estinien drank his in one swallow, scowling at the mug as if it had offended him.

As he set it back down, Nightbird reached out and put her hand over his.

His ice-blue eyes met hers, and she set her own wine down and eased closer to him.

“You have a little time right now,” she murmured. “Do you not?”

His cheeks were a little flushed, and she wondered for a moment if it was the wine or something more. Under her fingers, his hand trembled just a little.

He leaned down, his lips parting, his eyes on hers. Nightbird stretched up onto her toes and set her lips to his. As he slid one arm around her waist, she hummed again.

The sound seemed to electrify him. He let of his mug and slid his hand up to cradle her head, deepening the kiss even as he crushed her to him. She put her hands on his chest, fingers spread out, her claws hooking into his shirt just a bit. She was intensely aware of him now, feeling the tremor in his arms, the rapid tempo of his heartbeat. He tasted of wine, and his scent was intoxicating.

She molded herself to him, wanting to feel more, taste more. Her fingers tightened on his shirt, tugging it loose, even as his hand around her waist dropped to cup her bottom and grind her against him.

She let out a little mewl of lust, her blood on fire. Inwardly she marveled at how intense her reaction to him was, but she didn't want to stop. She'd been alone long enough that the hunger inside her would not be denied.

He pulled back, coming up for air, and searched her face. Eyes half shut, she yearned toward him, her tail flicking behind her.

He growled a little and suddenly he had lifted her up, his hands gripping her ass firmly. She wrapped her legs around his waist and hung on tight as he walked over to the bed.

He set her down on the mattress, and kissed her again before leaning back and yanking his shirt off over his head. She let him go so she could kick her shoes off and tug her own tunic up.

The sight of her silk camisole seemed to stun him, but only for a moment. She wriggled, pulling her tunic off over her head and off one arm, and he skimmed his hands across the silk, cupping her breasts.

She arched her back a little, pushing her breasts into his hands more firmly, and clawed at her skirt, dragging the fabric up around her hips. She spread her legs and gripped his hips with her thighs, to grind herself against him.

He leaned on one hand, the other kneading her breast gently, and nuzzled her jaw.

And then he bit her.

She yelped and sank her nails into his bare shoulders, and he laughed, a low dark chuckle that vibrated against her skin. She answered his laugh with a small hiss and then hauled him closer to sink her teeth delicately into the meat of his shoulder. She gripped him with her fangs just shy of drawing blood, and as he tensed, she sucked, hard.

The groan she wrung from him made shivers go up and down her spine, and her tail thrashed, thumping his thigh. She wriggled against him, shameless with wanting.

“You _are_ a minx,” he growled. But even as he spoke, he was yanking his trousers open with one hand. Nightbird let him go, falling back on the mattress and raking her nails lightly down his chest.

His cock sprang free of its confinement, and her eyes widened. She hadn't fully considered the differences in their heights, and all that it could imply.

“Frightened, little bird?”

She dragged her eyes from his cock to his face and bared her teeth at him. “Hardly.”

He made as if to pin her to the bed, but she flexed, twisted her hips and shoulders, and turned the tables on him, flipping him over onto his back and straddling him.

He blinked up at her in surprise, and then grinned. She could feel his cock rubbing against the rumpled fabric of her skirt, and she deliberately wiggled her ass, wringing another low moan from him.

She smiled at the sound, and plucked at the ties of her skirt, letting it fall away. Then, with tantalizing, slow motions, she dragged the silk camisole off over her head.

His eyes gleamed as he stared at her. She crawled up his body, pausing to kiss him once.

She settled her knees on either side of his head, and his hands steadied her hips. “Pleasure me,” she whispered to him. “Show me what else that tongue of yours can do.”

He nuzzled her sex and she sucked in a breath, putting her palms against the wall and rocking her hips against him. Her tail slithered across his belly.

She felt him snarl, and then he ripped the side seams of her panties, tearing them off her to reach his goal. When his tongue pierced her, she let out a strangled cry of lust.

He kept his grip on her as she arched and moaned, her nails leaving marks in the wood paneling. His tongue was longer than any other she'd encountered and she hissed in pleasure as he delved deep into her, lapping and stroking and drinking her.

Her eyes squeezed shut as she felt herself approaching climax, her thighs quaking, panting in harsh breaths.

Estinien's lips fastened around her clitoris. What he did next she couldn't have clearly described, but it shoved her over the edge. Keening, she came, shuddering so hard she would have fallen if he had not kept an iron grip on her body.

He didn't let go, didn't let up, until her body had stopped twitching. She shifted over, leaning her shoulder against the wall as if drunk, her legs utterly limp and useless.

He rolled over and got onto his knees, and pressed in close against her. His lips and cheeks were damp with her juices as he nuzzled her. “Not finished yet,” he whispered to her, and she shivered.

He settled himself with his back against the wall, his cock rising up, stiff and dark red with need.

Nightbird let him tug at her, and soon she was straddling him again. His hands steadied her as she slipped her own hand around his shaft, guiding him to her entrance.

She bared her teeth, hissing at the intensity of the sensations as the thick tip brushed across her engorged labia. But she was still soaking wet and her muscles flexed and grasped him, eagerly accepting his glans.

She panted as she lowered herself, moving slowly, feeling the incredible girth of him stretching her, almost painful. Estinien's breaths were as labored as hers, his face red as he watched his cock vanish into her. Part of her thrilled to see how hard he had to fight to maintain control.

When she had taken him completely, they both rested a moment, gasping for air.

Then he began to thrust into her, flexing his hips with a motion that was slow and somehow not gentle. He drew out of her slowly, deliciously, and then hilted himself anew, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Sing,” he told her. “Sing for me, little bird.”

She hummed, and keened, and gasped as he fucked her, and with every note he moved faster. His hands kneaded her hips, her breasts, and she clung to his arms, barely able to think straight for the glorious things he was doing to her.

It couldn't last forever. He began to thrust so hard she could barely breathe, and impaled on his cock, she could feel the orgasm coiling inward, tightening her. Her tail went stiff as it overcame her. She arched, head back, her eyes wide, her mouth open but unable to make a sound as all the air left her lungs.

Beneath her, the dragoon groaned once as he too climaxed. The enormous cock twitched and shuddered, his essence spilling into her and overflowing. His fingers dug into her hips, bruising, but she was beyond caring. They poised that way, his hips off the bed entirely as she perched on his cock, for a moment that lasted an eternity.

She tumbled off of him, falling onto the bed in a heap of limbs and tail, whimpering a little as she panted.

When she felt his arms curling around her, she looked up.

No trace of sarcasm remained in those ice-blue eyes. “Did I hurt you?” He searched her face, a tiny crease of worry appearing between his fine silver brows.

“No,” Nightbird murmured. Reaching up, she smoothed the damp hair away from his face. She was still breathing hard, but her smile seemed to reassure him.

He pulled away, though his fingers dragged across her skin as if reluctant to let go. “A moment,” he told her as he sat up and got out of bed.

She lay still, ears twitching as she listened to him moving softly around the room. Candles went out, and she heard water.

When he approached the bed again, she lifted her head just a little. Seeing the cloth in his hand, she sat up a bit and reached out for it.

But he didn't let her take it, instead washing her face and then her nether regions with a tenderness she would never have expected.

He took the cloth away, and came back. One candle remained, the one at the head of the bed, and he gently arranged the blankets over her before getting back in the bed.

Nightbird cuddled into him, and he curled his long limbs around her. His fingers stroked her hair in a soothing rhythm. He was so very warm! She felt her eyelids drooping, and let herself relax into his embrace and drift off into sleep.


	2. Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning starts out so well.

She woke up to the sensation of Estinien stroking her tail. She lay on her belly, her head pillowed on her arms. She could feel the warmth of him against her.

She cracked one eye open. Estinien was sitting up in the bed, with her tail over his leg. His long fingers circled the muscular appendage near the middle, then stroked along the direction of the fur to the tip. She couldn't see his face, though she had a marvelous view of his back. She contemplated dragging her fingers across that fascinating landscape of muscles and bone. But then he touched her tail again. Did he understand how sensitive it was? Likely not. “Mmf, stop that,” she grumbled.

He let go, chuckling, and lay back, leaning his head on his hand. He tucked his silver hair back over his ear, and stroked her shoulder gently.

“Good morrow, little bird.”

She yawned. “Good morrow, sir dragoon.” She stretched, and watched as his eyes roamed across her body. She purred a little, pleased with his appreciation.

Then she flicked her tail up and fluttered it across his ribs.

He sputtered and clamped his arm against his side, and she laughed. He glowered at her, ineffectively, as she kept at it, tickling him with tiny brushes of her tail-tip. He grabbed for it, but she evaded him and attacked his ribs once more. The second assault broke him down enough to laugh, and she relented, turning herself to face him, tail demurely lying still and hidden behind her legs.

He eyed her for a moment, as if uncertain if he was truly in the clear. Her ears wiggled a little as she smiled at him, entirely pleased with herself.

“If you taunt the cat,” she told him, her voice trembling with laughter, “Can you really complain when the cat responds?”

His frown vanished and he shook his head. The way his lips curved made her think he was very unused to smiling, much less laughing. Even more than most Ishgardians, he seemed unfamiliar with the simplest of joys.

He took her hand in his, and lifted it, kissing her knuckles, and her thoughts scattered to the wind. Something in the way he looked at her, in the way he touched her, sparked the warmth in her belly once more. She had this day to herself – no one to meet with, and Lord Haillenarte did not require her to report to him daily. She could spend all day in this room if she wished...and she found that she very much did wish exactly that.

She scooted closer to him, and nuzzled his neck. His hand slid from her hand, up her arm, and across her back, the fingers kneading and rubbing small circles across her shoulder blades before drifting towards the small of her back.

She ran her hand across his chest. There were many small scars scattered across his pale flesh, and a few larger ones on his arms. His was a dangerous profession, of course. No less dangerous than her own calling.

His fingers massaged their way to her hip. He paused as he felt the roughness of the mark there, and he looked at her, the question plain in his eyes.

Nightbird put her fingers over his. “A very old bit of history,” she murmured. “I prefer living in the present.” Her lips curved wickedly as she set her fingers on his belly and dragged them down, slowly. “Especially when such pleasant things lie before me.”

Estinien's eyes shut as her fingers curled around his member, his breath catching. Her touch brought him to readiness so easily. He smiled a little, and kissed her, growling softly against her lips.

He bent his head, tasting and teasing her breasts. She stroked him with her hand, and lazily ran her tail along his leg.

She let go of his member as he pushed her back to get better access. He sucked on her nipple hard, and her head fell back as she gasped and clutched at his hair. When he slipped one finger into her already damp folds she groaned.

“Such a voice you have,” he whispered. He lifted his head, his ice-blue eyes gleaming as a second finger joined the first. He set his lips against her collarbone as she panted. “Will you sing for me once more?”

She curled her head forward, her arms going around his shoulders. She sang a single, soft note, her breath tickling his ear.

He stroked her with his fingers as she held the note, feeling how her muscles flexed to maintain the sound. When she paused to take a shuddering breath he slipped yet another finger inside her slick sex.

Her tail lashed, thumping the bed, and her note was a little louder, a little higher. He worked his fingers against her, coaxing her with whispers and nuzzled kisses against her jaw. The sound of her gasps, her sighs, her song enchanted him. Her hips rocked, and her leg rubbed against his cock, aching now with eagerness.

He eased a fourth finger against her entrance, and her song broke off as she gasped. Her tail went bushy and she tensed. “Ah...” Her breath came fast. “Estinien...go slowly...it...ah, gods!” Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “Slow, ah....oh...”

“So charming,” he muttered, and lay her back against the pillow to graze his teeth against the upper curve of her breast. “Such lovely songs you sing.” He flexed his fingers inside of her, spreading the three just a little, his strokes slow but unrelenting. She tossed her head, her teeth clenched, and her nails dragged down his arms.

He feasted on the little cries she made, and tormented her until she was dripping with need.

Only then did he take her chin in his other hand, and kiss her, as if he were tasting some rare and fabulous vintage. He lifted himself, balancing above her. His eyes focused on her, as if he would see into her soul, as he guided her left leg to slide up his arm, until the calf rested on his shoulder.

Settling himself, he stroked her from belly to breasts. She stared up at him, seeing in his smile how he admired the sight of her wanting him.

Estinien wished for a single moment that he was a man of poetry. He had never seen anything so lovely as the woman beneath him. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her skin was like velvet beneath his hands. Her thighs gleamed with the juices he had wrung from her. Her sex was open, reddened, almost like a rose...ah, if he had such talent, he would shower her with words. But he was not that sort of man. Action would have to suffice.

He held her leg in place, even as he leaned in, setting his free hand on the mattress beside her head, balancing his weight, bringing his hips against her. His cock slipped against her wetness, teasing both of them, and he squeezed his eyes shut for one moment, breath rasping in his throat. She was too good. He warned himself to take care.

Nightbird's fingernails dragged down his chest and her leg on his shoulder tensed, tugging him down. “I need you...” she crooned, and he shuddered as her voice caressed him.

He opened his eyes and shifted himself, setting his tip against her entrance. He held her gaze as he eased himself inside her, and she sang for him.

It was a quiet song at first, sighing notes punctuated by gasps each time he eased deeper in, inch by inch.

She shut her eyes, her voice rising even as the pleasure built. He was so huge. She panted for breath, and he paused, petting her leg a little.

“Look at me,” he told her. His voice was nearly a growl, rough with need. “I want to see you looking at me, little bird...”

She obeyed, and her voice trembled as he slid forward one more time. When he hilted in her, she couldn't breathe for a second, her eyes fixed on his and her body clamoring. Her hand drifted up to caress his jaw.

Estinien smiled, and pulled back, until only his tip remained within her.

Nightbird whimpered, her walls clenching on him, trying to hold him in.

When he thrust forward, hilting again in one smooth motion, she cried out. Her hands fell away, clutching the sheets beneath them.

He moved against her with more long, slow strokes – as slow as he could make himself move. She wrapped her other leg around his waist, begging him with body and voice to give her more, to go faster. Her hair was in her face as she tossed her head.

The sound of her needy cries drove him half mad. He felt his control crumbling, every time she tightened around him, and he groaned.

“Harder,” she moaned. She stared up at him, her amber eyes smoldering.

“I don't – ngh – want to hurt you.” His voice was hoarse, his breath labored. He struggled to keep his control just a little longer. He could feel the tension building within him.

Her nails bit into his arm as she grabbed it with one hand. “I am not made of glass, dragoon.” Even her growl was musical. “Give me all of you, and don't hold back, Estinien.” She punctuated her words with another incredible flexing of her walls, another tightening of her leg around his waist. Estinien's control snapped.

He surged against her, his eyes fixed on her face. His entire body shuddered. She uttered deliciously broken cries every time he filled her, and writhed as he pulled back. He could feel her tail beating itself against his thigh.

She shrieked once, and he felt her begin to come, her walls clamping down on him ferociously.

Gentleness, control, sanity were tossed to the winds. He clutched her leg in his hand, hard enough to bruise. His hips pounded against her, and he groaned, utterly lost.

She bit his arm, muffling her scream, and he heard cloth ripping and knew she'd torn the sheets with her nails.

He buried his face against her neck and succumbed to his orgasm, hips bucking. His eyes shut, his mouth was filled with her ebony hair, and he groaned her name.

They lay still. Both of them trembled and panted for air. Aftershocks seemed to pass through them, from one body to another. Her walls would ripple against him and his cock would twitch, and they would both gasp.

Estinien eased himself out of her, but couldn't move more than that. He rubbed his face against her neck, willing his eyes to stop stinging. Why was he crying, damn it?

Her hands – so delicate they were! - stroked his arms, his back, his hair. Her tail shifted against his calf, soft fur caressing him. Though it was he that covered her, he felt as if she had completely surrounded his very soul. And he didn't want it to end.

Nightbird savored the feel of him against her, the smell of him, the sound of his breathing. She floated on the sensations still cascading through her. Even the soreness of her abused sex was a glorious, incredibly sensuous ache. She had had Elezen lovers in the past, but Estinien was certainly the most exceptional lover of any race she had ever known. It wasn't just the physical side, either. There was more between them than lust. She shut her eyes, and smiled to herself.

She hadn't come here expecting anything in particular. She'd hoped for a romp, of course, but she had been prepared for a simple roll in the hay and nothing more.

This...was something else entirely. She wasn't sure what – but she felt it, in her bones.

She felt moisture against her neck and shoulder, and realized with a flicker of concern that Estinien was weeping.

“Estinien?”

She heard his breath catch. He didn't speak. But as he pulled away, she felt his withdrawal in more ways than one.

He got out of the bed and fetched the cloth. Once it was damp, he handed it to her, his face hidden by his hair. She took it, and he turned away, hunting among the chaos of discarded clothes.

She cleaned herself, silently, watching as he shrugged on his shirt. She could read the tension across his back and shoulders, but she didn't understand why it was there. She couldn't possibly have hurt him. Not that she believed any physical pain, no matter how agonizing, would ever make him weep. He was simply not that sort of man.

She tossed the cloth aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “What's wrong?”

“Wrong?” He didn't turn to face her, instead bending over – giving her a _most_ charming view as his shirt rode up almost to his waist. He plucked her shirt off the floor and straightened.

Only then did he turn to face her. He tossed the shirt to her, and she saw with regret that he wore the small, sarcastic smile once again, as he had in the inn common room.

He met her eyes, and she shook her head. “Never mind.”

She extricated her skirt from the chaos of the blankets, then slipped it on. She pulled her shirt on, and straightened her stockings, then stood up and smoothed her skirt. Her underwear was nowhere to be seen, and she shrugged mentally. The skirt was long and modest, a lack of underthings was hardly a concern. Estinien watched her, not moving.

She caught a flash in his eyes as she stepped over to the table and slipped her shoes on. He expected her to make some sort of trouble, perhaps.

Well then, she would surprise him.

She met his gaze and sighed just a little. “I suppose it's time for me to go.” She laid no weight at all on the words, making them a simple statement of fact.

His voice was polite, cool, controlled. “It seems so.” But she saw his hand twitch in her direction.

Her ears tilted down a little. “Perhaps we will see each other again,” she offered, but he turned his shoulder to her.

“Aymeric will likely attend as many of your performances as he can manage,” the dragoon said, in an off-hand tone. “Perhaps he'll drag me along to one or another of them.”

Nightbird raised one eyebrow, her tail flicking once. Hurt threaded through her, and her words were laced with the faintest of mockery. “What a loyal friend,” she said, “tolerating such boring events for his sake alone.”

She turned and went to the door, unlocking it. She hesitated, but her pride, stung, wouldn't let her turn to look back at him. Without speaking again, she left.

She walked out of the tavern, her steps quick, trying to control her agitation.

Why had he gone so cold?

He had enjoyed her as much as she had enjoyed him – she was certain of that. She hadn't been wrong about feeling some sort of deeper connection with him. Surely he had felt it too.

She had known the sort of men who would use a woman as a toy, and discard her carelessly when they were sated. They generally did not sleep with their playthings. She refused to believe Estinien was that kind of man. He had been so honest in his pleasure, so unguarded once they'd begun.

Why had he wept?

She had seen the flash of pain in his eyes, before the first time they'd made love. He had hidden it quickly but...

She stopped in her tracks. “Oh.”

That was the key word. _Hidden_. He hadn't wanted her to know about his tears, just as he hadn't wanted to show her his pain. It was all armor – the sarcasm, the attitude, the smug arrogance and seemingly callous comments. Who had hurt him so, she wondered, that he had surrounded himself in such layered defenses that almost no one could really see him?

A sound brought her back to her senses, just in time to warn her. She threw herself to one side, narrowly avoiding the man attempting to tackle her from behind.

Tail lashing, she spun to put her back against a wall.

She was in a filthy alleyway – her eyes darted about, seeing no means of escape except the entrance to the alley. She had wandered, paying no attention to her steps. She had been thinking so hard about the dragoon that she had utterly failed to notice she was wandering into the poorest part of the city – the Brume.

She hadn't explored this area much, and she'd hardly been prepared for a foray into a rough area.

She assessed her situation. She was unarmed, without so much as a short knife. There were two of them – roughly dressed, rather dirty ruffians. One held a knife, in a grip that showed he knew how to use it. Her ears flattened.

“Here, kitty,” the ruffian with the knife said, leering. “C'mere, pretty little kitty.”

The other man stepped closer. “We just want to pet you.”

She spat at him. “Don't touch me.” She loaded her voice with warning and venomous anger, but she knew she needed some way to distract or disable them. She couldn't win this fight. She needed to escape.

The second ruffian grabbed her arm.

She bit his hand, hard and vicious, her fangs tearing his flesh as he yelped and snatched his hand back. She spat his blood onto the ground.

But instead of intimidating them, her retaliation simply enraged both men.

“Kitty wants to play rough then!” The knife man snarked and scuffled forward, slashing at her. She dodged his blade, but it put her in reach of the bitten man, and he pounced.

He grabbed her by the hair, knotting his fingers in it and twisting, yanking her back against him. He set his arm across her throat. Like most Ishgardians he was significantly taller than she; he had to bend just a little to rub his face against her hair, making a disgusting show of smelling of her. She nearly gagged from his stench, and her ears flattened tighter, his laugh too loud.

The knife wielder moved in, his free hand already busy on his trousers, dragging them down, a nasty grin contorting his already unlovely features.

The blood pounded in her veins, and in her memory she heard the voices, the calls of a crowd that wanted to see blood and hear her screams. She keened as terror flooded her.

Her hands clamped onto the arm that pressed against her throat, nails sinking in. But the ruffian simply straightened his back, and her feet came off the stones.

Hysterical, she brought both her knees up, and kicked out at the knife man. Her heels struck him squarely beneath his chest bone.

He flew backward against the opposite wall of the alleyway, his knife clattering to the ground, blood trickling from his mouth. The back of his skull struck the wall with a sickening crack, and he collapsed into a heap.

The force of her kick had also knocked her captor back a pace, and he swore in shock, but he didn't let her go.

She kicked at him, but her heels only pummeled his shins. He tightened his arm, choking her. She gulped for air and clawed at his arm, but the pressure only increased. Her vision began to blur. In her mind, the crowd roared...

Something slammed into them, knocking her free as her attacker screamed in pain.

She tumbled forward, scrambling for the knife. She got both hands on it and whirled, even as she wheezed. Every breath ached.

The ruffian was not moving, and she backed against the wall as she saw the figure in dark armor and the massive lance that pinned the thug to the wall. Blood ran down the man's sleeve.

The armored man growled, and Nightbird's tail fur bushed out completely even as her mind recognized Estinien's voice. The ruffian protested, his voice high with panic.

“Since when do dragoons attack citizens?”

“We mete out justice just the same as the knights do,” the dragoon replied. “You laid hands on this woman. I could execute you here and now.”

“Why should you care? She's an out-lander, some noble's toy!”

“She is no one's toy,” Estinien's growl deepened.

He pulled the lance back, spinning it and grounding the haft. “I will let you live,” he told the terrified ruffian. “You will carry my message to the other spineless swiving curs of the Brume. The woman is not to be touched. Do you understand me?”

The ruffian nodded, frantically, and sidled away, stumbling before he turned and fled.

Estinien turned to face Nightbird, who was still pressed against the wall, knife clutched in both hands, eyes wild. Her pupils were huge, the amber irises nothing more than a thin ring. She stared at him as if she didn't know him. There was blood on her face, and on her fingertips.

He glanced at the collapsed ruffian, and eyed the splotch of blood on the stones. With a small snort he dismissed the dead man from his concerns, and looked back at the singer.

He took one step forward, and spoke to her.

“Put the knife down. The fight is over.”

She stared at him blankly for one second more, and then he saw sense come back to her. She shook her head, and her stance relaxed. The knife was still in one hand as she lifted the other to scrape her hair out of her face. He could hear her controlling her breath, could see her forcing away all the outer signs of fear – he knew the signs well enough.

Then her eyes fell on the dead man not five feet away from her, and the knife clattered to the ground.

He stepped between her and the dead ruffian, but she frowned and pushed past him to go kneel beside the body.

She bent her head, murmuring.

He watched her, warily. Was she _praying?_ He had expected tears, hysterics even. Most of the women he'd known would have been utterly helpless. They would not have killed a man with a well timed kick. They would not have shown compassion for a dead criminal.

But she merely finished her prayer, and stood up, turning to face him. Her expression was calm as she smoothed her skirt. But she didn't meet his eyes. Her ears were still down, and her tail was agitated.

But she clasped her hands, eyes cast down, the very picture of a modest and demure maiden. “Thank you,” she said simply.

He nodded, uncertain what else he _could_ do. There was nothing he could say, here in a place where anyone might hear. His own pride aside, the reputation of the dragoons of Ishgard would not benefit from him upbraiding some out-lander woman in the alleyway. No matter how much he wanted to take her shoulders and shout at her for a fool. No matter how much he wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her away and...

Nightbird waited a moment, but the man before her might as well have been a statue. She couldn't read him now, in all his armor, beyond the set of his jaw. He wasn't happy. Well, neither was she. She had been foolish and had needed, of all things, rescuing.

When he still said nothing after a moment more, she turned, and walked away.

Estinien stared after her, nonplussed. Then his lips tightened and he vaulted up onto the rooftops. He knew the roof road well, and from this vantage, he could follow her unnoticed.

Nightbird kept her pace steady, not fast; the stride of a woman who knows her path well and has somewhere to be. She left the noisome alley and the Brume – she hadn't gone that far into the area – and threaded her way back to cleaner streets. Her path was circuitous: she took side streets instead of the wide main thoroughfares that would have brought her swiftly to the Pillars.

She wanted the time, and just as much, she wanted not to be seen when she reached Manor Haillenarte. It was far easier to go unnoticed, even as an exotic out-lander, if she tread the paths of the invisible third class of people in this city of towers: the servants.

It was not for nothing that she had chosen such plain attire, after all. Except for unusual cases, Ishgardians truly did not notice the servants who ran errands around the city. They might know their personal servitors – but never would they see the boy who brought the day's milk and butter, or the scullery girls. Even if they knew their faces, they would certainly never acknowledge them in public.

But as she walked, beneath her outward show of calm, her thoughts were chaotic.

Foolish of her to be out anywhere without a weapon, not so much as a knife. Foolish, too, to let herself be so very distracted by a certain dragoon that she had taken the wrong turn, and ended up in the Brume at all. How annoying, that he had so occupied her thoughts; that he even now followed her from above, as if she couldn't be trusted to get herself back without further incident. She could hear him, up there, soft scrapes of armor against tiles, but she never once looked up.

But even her annoyance was merely a veil, a distraction from the dark things that stirred in the back of her mind. The monsters in her memories, the things that came for her in her dreams.

She firmly squashed all the clamoring in her head, forcing it down, into a back corner. She would deal with it all – as she always did – but not now, not here, not when she was not alone.

She turned down a wide, very clean back street – another alley, in point of fact. But this alley gave access to the great manors, and as such it was as spotless as any monastery's courtyard.

She bent her head, and heard the sound again. He was still up there, on the roofs. She wondered if he truly believed her oblivious. Probably. A tiny smile flitted across her face.

He had rescued her, and that stung – to have made foolish mistakes was already galling but to have been seen making such mistakes – oh, much worse. And yet she was grateful to him. He had spoken to her, in her panic. His words had been matter-of-fact, simple, direct. There had been no pity, no comfort in them – and that had steadied her far more than any worried inquiry would have done. She doubted that he understood what had passed, but that didn't matter. He had been as a rock in a stormy sea, and she was glad of it.

Besides, it was likely better that she did not commit two murders today, wasn't it?

She reached Manor Haillenarte at last, and stepped through the servants' gate.

Above, a dark figure leaped away over the roofs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I have no idea where this is going exactly, but I'll continue to add on as I discover that!
> 
> This work was in part inspired and enabled by  
> Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club  
> Please come and join if you've a mind to do so!  
> https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj


	3. A Warm Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That rarest of things, a warm day in Ishgard

Nightbird sat on the bench that circled the big old maple tree. No, she admitted to herself, she wasn't sitting, she was _basking_ , laying back, one leg bent, her skirt draped to maintain some semblance of modesty. It was that rarest of things: a warm day in Ishgard. Most of the family were in another part of the garden – the water garden, naturally enough. But here, it was much quieter. The Haillenarte gardens were spectacular and sprawling, and yet every bit of them served a purpose beyond mere display. This grand old maple was likely the great-great-grand-tree of all the other maples in the city, and it along with its mates in the orchard provided the family with the only local syrup that wasn't birch. Other families paid for maple syrup from Gridania at a premium price – but not this one.

But, for the moment, it was summer. Other trees in the orchard were having their days of glory, and the maples were lush and green. Nightbird's eyes were shut as she enjoyed the lovely breeze and the shade.

Leaves rustled above her and she smiled slightly.

She hadn't seen Estinien again since their parting in the alleyway. But she had sensed him, from time to time over the past two weeks, lurking above her when she ran errands or strolled the Pillars. He was nothing more than a shadow, or a light sound that only her sensitive ears noted. She had tried to catch sight of him, but he was very good at hiding.

But today, it seemed, he was less cautious. Or perhaps he wanted her to see him. She hummed, as if to herself, and the rustle came again, closer, right above her.

She opened her eyes.

A dark shape lay stretched out along the branches. She smiled slightly. Her lure had worked.

“How _are_ you staying up there, in all that armor?”

She saw his lips curve. “It's a secret.”

Her smile widened at the sound of his voice. For a moment she felt almost bubbly with happiness, but she kept it carefully toned down. It wouldn't do to frighten him off.

“If you wanted to speak to me,” she told him, infusing her words with laughter, “you could have sent a note.”

He only grunted in answer to that. Her ears drooped a little. He was almost impossible to read, encased in bladed armor, his face covered like that.

She tried to keep her tone casual and light as she stretched just a little. “This weather is so nice,” she said, her eyes drifting shut again. “I might even leave my window open tonight.”

“So you've a room to yourself, then?” His voice was thoughtful. “A rare honor for a servant.”

Her brows knit a little, and she opened her eyes just a tiny bit. “I'm a guest here, dragoon. Of course I have a room to myself.” Then she let her lips curve again. “A minor guest, to be sure. Which is why my room is two down from the eastern corner.”

She felt his eyes on her, felt his interest, heard him take in a breath.

“Nightbird! Nightbird? Are you out here?”

Nightbird sat up. She heard leaves rustling above her, then silence. For a moment, she wanted to swear at the whoever had called out for her. Estinien had been on the edge of speaking – perhaps to accept her offer?

Well. Either he would show up tonight, or not. She had all but handed him an engraved invitation, after all. If he truly did not want another night with her, she would know soon enough.

She stood, straightened her skirt, and stepped out onto the path, waving one hand to show the maid that she had heard the call.

Twilight gathered over the city; it was still warm, and the streets high and low were full of courting couples. Estinien's lip curled a little in annoyance as he made his way across the roofs. His path was roundabout – apparently the weather was encouraging the adventurous to tryst up _here_ as well as every other conceivable place other than their beds.

Fools, the lot of them, the men and the women alike. Some of them were liars as well as fools. All of them played games with the hearts of others. Their antics grated on his nerves.

But let them play at their games. He had no time for such nonsense.

_Then why am I here?_

Why, indeed. He shouldn't have slipped out of the barracks, leaving behind his armor and his fellow dragoons. He shouldn't be here, perched on the roof of Manor Haillenarte, waiting for darkness to close in. He had no business consorting with some out-lander woman. Even if her voice filled his dreams. Even if he couldn't go more than a day without seeking her out, just to watch her. He was merely making sure she didn't wander down any more alleyways.

He moved down the building; the Haillenarte manor was very old, and very ornate, and therefore very easy for a man of his skills to navigate. The east wing, which held all the guest rooms, was particularly covered in projecting bits of worked iron and other such sturdy things. He had already scouted his path, hours ago; he barely had to focus to get to that particular window that was his goal.

He paused, just outside of it, and shut his eyes.

Of course he wasn't nervous. Why should he be nervous, why should he shake like a leaf? She was only a woman. The tremor in his belly meant nothing.

_I am a damn idiot._

He should go. He shouldn't actually leap down to the windowsill and slip inside her room. He could still turn around and leave...

Nightbird sat at a little desk, a lantern beside her, going over some music. He stared at her for a breath, caught by the way the light gilded her features and made the material of her dress seem almost insubstantial in places. He saw her ear twitch, swiveling toward the window.

Nightbird heard him outside the window, and waited, not turning her head until she caught the hint of motion in the corner of her eye.

When she did look up, he was perched on the windowsill. The lantern light flickered across his face, making it hard to read his expression, but his shoulders looked tense, as if he were ready to vanish at the slightest excuse.

She set down the music in her hand, and stood up from her desk. She regarded him with one hand on her hip. “Well, well,” she said. “I wasn't certain you'd come.”

He just looked at her, even as he leaped lightly down to the floor. He was wearing the same simple clothes he had worn before.

She moved to stand just within arm's reach of him, and looked up into his face.

“What, no greeting?” she teased. “Or did you come just to stare?”

“I came because you invited me.” His voice was cool, but her musician's ear caught the tremor he tried to hide.

“So I did.” She held out her hand to him, palm up. “Come, then. We can talk, or not.”

He looked from her hand to her face, and then took her fingers in his, turning her hand over and kissing the knuckles before pulling her close to him.

She smiled, and slid her arms around his waist. She rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt, feeling his hands settle on her shoulders, light as birds.

When she tilted her head to look up at him, he leaned down and kissed her.

“I don't want to _talk_ ,” he murmured against her mouth.

Nightbird chuckled, low and soft, and nibbled his lower lip gently.

His hands skimmed down from her shoulders, over the fluttering sleeves of her pale-gray gown. She plucked at his shirt, tugging it loose to slide her hands beneath the fabric and caress his bare skin. When he nuzzled her neck, she dragged her nails across his sides, then rubbed her fingertips against the same line, soothing the skin where she had scratched.

He found the sash around her waist, and deftly tugged it loose, tossing it towards the chair. It fluttered as it fell across the chair back, and fluttered again as a breeze wafted through the open window.

The dress belled out a little, freed of the sash, and Estinien's hands smoothed across the thin cotton, across her back, down, feeling her curves...and the complete lack of underthings.

He pulled back from her just a little, eyebrows raised, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He pulled at the fluttering sleeves, down off her shoulders, and his smile widened as her skin was exposed.

She smiled back at him, shrugging a little to ease her arms free of the sleeves, letting the cloth slide down her body. When it had pooled on the floor at her feet, she pulled at the hem of his shirt. “Come now. Fair is fair.”

He obliged her, pulling the shirt off over his head. But as soon as the fabric was across his face, he felt her hands on him, felt her mouth –

Nightbird all but attacked him, her lips and tongue eager on his flesh, kissing and nipping ever so softly. He gasped a little and finished pulling off his shirt. When his hands returned to her they were trembling. When she set her mouth over one of his dusky, flat nipples, he groaned and his fingers bit into her arms.

He pulled her up, almost off her feet, and kissed her hard. Wind gusted through the window and his hair washed across her face and shoulder. She returned the kiss, enthusiastically, but her hands dragged down his belly to latch onto the ties of his pants.

When he came up for air, she tugged herself loose from his grip and resumed kissing her way across his chest...then his belly. Her clever little fingers tugged with swift, sure motions, and then his pants were sliding down his hips. He shut his eyes as he felt her kisses drift lower...and lower still.

He hooked his thumbs into the waist band and yanked down, releasing his cock into her waiting hands. When he opened his eyes, she was on her knees, her full lips curving in a most wicked fashion as she stroked him.

She looked up at him through her lashes, the lantern light making them seem to glow. He stroked her hair back from her face, the very tips of his fingers stroking ever so gently across her ears. She held eye contact with him as she opened that wicked mouth. Her tongue seemed very pink against her obsidian skin, against the duskiness of his cock. She licked his head, and then fitted her mouth over him and took him, in one motion, slow as honey and far sweeter.

His groan made her narrow her eyes, pleased with herself. She applied herself to his cock, laving the head with her tongue, then taking him once more, her throat flexing and relaxing. His hips rocked against her and she slipped one hand down, beneath the shaft, to delicately cup his balls.

His breath hissed through his teeth and his fingers were in her hair, knotting for an instant before he forced himself to relax. He muttered something that sounded rather like a curse, and his thighs trembled as she gently squeezed the hot, tender flesh in her hand.

His cock twitched strongly in her mouth, and she stroked him with hand and lips both. In moments he was fucking against her, as if he couldn't help himself. His breathing was ragged and his hands flexed in her hair. “Fury,” he groaned, and the sound sent shocks of delight through her.

With no more warning than that single word, he was coming.

She swallowed as fast as she could, but even so, she felt the hot come flowing down her chin, dripping. She pulled away, gasping a little, letting the last of his come smear across her hands.

He staggered back a couple of steps, catching himself on the windowsill. He stared at her as she very deliberately wiped some of his come off her face and licked her fingers.

The smile she leveled at him reminded him, for a moment, of some exotic predator, set on devouring him completely. The sight of his own come across her face, gleaming silver in the pale light from the waning moon, made him shudder.

She climbed to her feet, and strolled over to her dresser. He watched her move, the flex of her muscles, the slow swish of her tail, and his cock twitched, aching a little. Incredibly, he felt his body trying to come to full readiness, already, a response the like of which he'd not known since he was a rampantly horny teenager.

She was washing her face, now – he could hear the water. He kicked off his boots and his pants, trying to catch his breath. When he was as bare as she was, he paced across the room towards her.

She stood still as he approached her, but he knew she was merely waiting for him to make the next move. The light was very dim, in this part of the room, but he could just see her in the mirror that hung on the wall above the dresser. Her eyes gleamed at him, watchful and warm.

He stopped just a few inches away from her, and gathered her hair in his hands, letting the ebony strands flow across his fingers, then shifting it all over to one side, exposing her neck and shoulder. She eased back the mere half-step it took to brush her back against him, and bent her head, offering, her eyes half closed.

He leaned down, and set his lips against her skin. He could feel her pulse, light and fast against his mouth, could smell the sweet scent of her, and he tasted of her, tracing a line with lips and tongue along her shoulder, lifting her arm to continue his exploration, until he reached her hand, and those delicate, clever fingers. He kissed her palm once, and then slid one of her fingers into his mouth.

She let out a tiny gasp, and swayed against him, her head lolling as her other hand groped for him, finding his thigh. He set his other hand on her belly, holding her to him softly, and watched her face as he suckled on first one finger, then two. She bit her lip and uttered a soft hum of pleasure.

The sound of her voice made his skin tighten all over, and he released her fingers to lower his head once more and nibble her neck and the place where the elegant curve of her jaw began. Her fingers, damp now with his saliva, tangled in his hair. Her hips rocked, and the round softness of her ass ground against him. His cock flexed, again trying to rise fully, rubbing the small of her back fitfully.

He kept his mouth against her, cupping her breast with one hand while his other slid down her belly, lower, to caress the nest of blue-black curls against skin dark as night.

She pressed herself against him, her fingers knotting in his hair, a moan escaping from her, though she bit her lip. He stroked her nipple between his fingers, making her gasp. She opened her eyes and looked at him in the mirror, and the lust he saw there made him smile against her skin.

He slipped his fingers lower still, curling, and felt immediately how very wet she was. Her tail curled around his leg, the tip trembling, almost tickling, and her ears flattened. She _whined_ , very softly.

“Hmm?” he murmured, his lips still against her neck, even as he watched her face intently. “Something you want to say, little bird?”

She huffed a little, and her tail tip flicked against him. “Touch me,” she whispered.

“Ask me nicely,” he teased, curling his fingers just shy of stroking her clitoris.

She whined again, and her hips rolled against him, trying to rub into his hand. “Please, Estinien,” she managed, her voice breathy with need. “ _Please_ touch – ah! Oh, gods...!”

He plunged two fingers into her, delving, stroking, almost lifting her on his hand. She clutched at him, one hand on the back of his head and the other desperately clinging to his arm. Her tail shuddered as he worked his fingers in and out of her.

His thumb brushed against her clitoris and she went stiff in his arms, her walls clamping around his fingers as she came right then and there. He held her steady, watching in fascination as she quivered in his grasp. The tiny sighs she made as she came were music to his ears.

Nightbird's head reeled with pleasure, as she nearly went limp in Estinien's arms. She hadn't realized just how pent up she really was until her mouth had been around his cock.

He wanted to take her _right now_...but he knew his body wasn't – yet – ready. And so, he let her go, only to scoop her up in his arms, and carry her to her bed.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her tail caressing him even as she nuzzled against his shoulder. She was so _small_. So delicate. And yet he had felt the strength in her limbs, he had seen what she could do at need. She was no weak and fragile flower.

He set her on the mattress, and climbed on the bed, balancing himself above her.

Her hands came up and she cupped his face, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones. Her eyes were lambent, catching the faint glow of the lantern like jewels, and she wore a smile that made something deep inside of him tremble.

He lowered himself to claim her mouth, to rain kisses across her cheeks, down her neck, across her collarbone and then her breasts. He fastened his mouth on her nipples, lavishing attention on them as she sighed and arched for him. “Estinien,” she crooned.

The air left his lungs for a moment, the song in her voice too sweet, too adoring. He rested his head against her belly and just shook for a moment, eyes shut tight. He was _not_ going to cry this time, damn it.

When he had regained some semblance of control, he returned to kissing her skin. His fingers trailed across her hips, and he felt again the rough skin, the mark she hadn't let him see. He gazed at the spot, but it was too dark to make out what sort of scar it really was. He laid his lips against it, and she sucked in a breath, twitching away.

He soothed her with hands and lips, moving away from the spot, reassuring her without speaking a word.

Her legs opened for him, one foot rubbing against his shoulder as he crept lower and lower in the bed. He could smell her, open as she was, sweet with wanting. He cupped her rear in his hands, lifting her a little, and lightly teased her with the very tip of his tongue, tracing a path along the very edge of the delicate flare of the labia, stopping short of her clitoris.

Her hands knotted in the blanket, and her heels dug into his shoulder blades. Her body begged for him, even as she opened her mouth. “Estinien...please...”

The words were sung and not moaned – she knew what it would do to him, and she hummed in delight as her voice had the exact effect she was after. His tongue delved into her, he _feasted_ on her, and she gave herself up to it. Her cries were soft, as she did her best to remain quiet – the walls here were not terribly thick, and the window was open, after all. But as her pleasure mounted, it was harder and harder to hold back...

She bit her own hand as she came on his tongue, the only way she could muffle the scream that wanted to burst forth from her throat. Her back arched, her hips rolling uncontrollably as he continued to stimulate her clitoris, until she wrenched herself away at last, unable to take any more.

She scooted up the bed, gasping, and he crawled after her, until she fetched up against the headboard. But he only kissed her once, and then lay down, slightly on his side, resting his head on her lap.

He felt her hands on his hair, felt how she was shaking, and shut his eyes, well pleased with himself. She was warm beneath his cheek, and the sweet scent of her filled his head. For the moment, he was as content as he could ever remember being. His hand rested on her leg, and he stroked his thumb across her silken skin.

Her fingers began to comb through his hair, slowly, and he let himself relax a little more. A soft sigh escaped his lips.

Nightbird's breathing slowed, gradually, as she petted Estinien's hair. The silver-white strands slid across her fingers, cool and silky and soothing. He lay against her, so still that she wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep. But then he sighed again, and his fingers rubbed little circles on her skin. The sound of that sigh made her heart flutter.

He shifted, his hand wandering a little. But when his thumb brushed against the mark on her hip, he paused, and lifted up a little to look at her. His eyes were dark, softer somehow. As had happened before, there was no sarcasm now, no armor at all between them.

“Tell me about this,” he said quietly.

Nightbird swallowed once, and focused her eyes on a small spot on the wall. He was trusting her this much. She could tell him the basic facts.

“When I was very young,” she said, “I was captured, along with the rest of my family. Some kind of raid, I suppose. Eventually I was sold off. My...owner...found fault with me one day. He decided that to teach me a lesson, he would lease me to another man, who ran an establishment that catered to...very specific tastes. Among other things, they marked me thus.”

“They tortured you.”

“They branded me.” She shook her head, and took a deep breath. “It was long ago, and far away from Eorzea. The mark no longer pains me. Please,” she looked at his mouth, still not quite able to meet his eyes. “Don't worry about it.”

“It saddens you still.” He reached up and stroked her cheek.

“Only if I think about it,” she answered. She wiggled a little, easing herself down so she could kiss him more easily. “And you can easily distract me from doing _that_.”

“Oh?” He smiled, lazily, and nuzzled her jaw. “Are you recovered enough?”

“Are you?” Nightbird asked archly, then gasped a little as he pressed against her.

“ _Quite_ recovered,” he chuckled, and bent his attention to distracting her most thoroughly.

The pale light of false dawn crept into the room. East facing as it was, the early morning breeze swept in, and Estinien shivered just a little as he turned over in the bed.

He tugged at the blanket – Nightbird had rolled over in her sleep and stolen it, for the second time – and eased himself in beside her, until they were skin to skin again. She twitched and mumbled, but then wriggled around to put her arms around him and snuggle close.

He lay there, petting her hair, just watching her. He would need to leave soon if he wanted to make it back to the barracks without drawing a lot of attention to himself. Though he doubted any of the others would breathe a word to him, he knew well how much gossip flowed among the dragoons. If they got wind of his...involvement, in no time there would be some sort of bet going on. The only reason there would not be ribbing along with the betting was his rank as the Azure.

And even that wouldn't save him if Aymeric found out. Or, Fury take him, _Haurchefant_.

He scowled a little, thinking about how much glee the silver haired knight would take in finding Estinien had become attached even in the slightest. Then Nightbird sighed, and rubbed her cheek against him, and he couldn't help but smile again.

The wind gusted again, and even through the blanket he could feel the chill in it. Nightbird mumbled again, burrowing into him a little. He chuckled, and stroked her cheek.

“Time to wake, little bird,” he said quietly.

She tilted her face up towards him, and he kissed her gently.

“Hmm,” she sighed, and opened one eye. “Not morning,” she mumbled. “Sleep more.”

“You may be able to lie abed, lazy one,” he teased. “But I have duties.”

“Is it lazy of me,” she retorted, though her words were still slurred with sleep, “if you didn't let me rest most of the night?”

“I was the one doing most of the work as I recall.”

That made her sit up. “Huh,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. But her ears were not flat. He'd learned that much of her: her tail and her ears sometimes told more than she might wish.

He laughed at her, and her ears wriggled as she grinned. She leaned over him, and gave him a lusty kiss, which he returned gladly.

But then he set her back from him, and got out of the bed.

Nightbird wrapped the blanket around herself and admired the view as he walked away from her to retrieve his pants. “Do you truly have to leave so soon?”

“The defense of the city is not something to be put aside in favor of a morning's pleasure,” he answered, but his tone was mild. He pulled on his pants, and sat on the floor to put on his shoes.

“Surely you do take days off once in a while?”

“Certainly.” His smile was a little sly. “When the Lord Commander demands that I do so. He's the only one who can, after all.”

She tilted her head, and an odd smile crossed her lips. “Because of his rank, or because he is your friend?”

Estinien hesitated for an instant, then finished with his second shoe and stood up.

Then he walked back over to her, still bare chested, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Both,” he said finally. “But mostly because he is the Lord Commander. He is not the sort of friend that often makes demands.”

Her eyes gleamed as she gave him a sideways glance. “And are the two of you very close friends?”

He squinted at her a little, and then laughed very softly. “Very close indeed, from time to time. He did save my life, after all, when we were still but newly-made knights.”

“A very good friend indeed.” She put her hand over her mouth, covering a yawn. “I shall remain glad that my own duties do not begin until a decent hour of morning, then.”

She looked at him from under her lashes, and he wondered for a moment what she might be thinking. He touched her hair, and then heard himself saying, “When might I see you again?”

He hadn't intended to say any such thing, and he cursed at himself inwardly. But he waited, almost holding his breath, as she considered.

“I have a concert three days from today,” she said at last. “I will have another day of rest, after that. If your own duties allow it, perhaps that night?”

He couldn't recall the roster all of a sudden, but once more his mouth opened and words emerged that he hadn't intended to say. “Done. I will be here at midnight that night.”

She leaned over, and kissed him. “I might be a little later than midnight, myself,” she told him. “This concert is to be held in the Fortemps manor, but I'm told that several members of House Dzemael will attend.” She sighed. “Thus far, all my encounters with that House have been less than pleasant.”

“Not all of them have their heads up their arses,” Estinien shrugged. “Some of my best dragoons are of Dzemael blood.”

“They are certainly...fierce.” She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “They have no fear of speaking their minds, either. But some of the opinions that have been aired in my presence were...” Her ears flattened. “Personally uncomfortable.”

Estinien's eyebrows drew together. “You've met Tibernus then.”

The twist of her lips was all the answer he needed. But she shook her head. “I am well able to avoid that particular individual most of the time,” she told him. “But yes, he is one of the more problematic lords.”

She didn't add that the young lord had been attending as many of her performances as he could, and loitering about after them, attempting to get her alone. His desires were as obvious as blood on snow, and she had no intentions of ever letting him corner her, in any sense.

“The lordling is a blackguard and a rake,” Estinien said flatly, “and he would have been beaten through the streets by more than one angry father if he were not a favorite of his grandfather's.”

“Which is why I shan't leave until I have an appropriate escort,” she said lightly. Then she caught his hand in hers, and kissed his palm. “I look forward to seeing you after.”

He leaned in and claimed her mouth one last time. Then, he stood, and grabbed his shirt off the floor. He pulled it on, and leaped lightly up onto the windowsill. He glanced back at her for only an instant, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This work was in part inspired and enabled by  
> Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club  
> Please come and join if you've a mind to do so!  
> https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj


	4. The Dark of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird's concert did run late. She'll have to make it up to Estinien.

The concert had gone well – perfectly, in fact. Her discussion afterward with the Count Fortemps had yielded very promising results. She would not call it a done deal until she had the papers in hand; but he had all but offered to have her join his household immediately. If House Fortemps would meet her terms, she would soon have what she had come here for.

But when she had left that meeting with the Count, to mingle with the guests, that dratted lordling from House Dzemael had attached himself to her side. He had trailed her all over the party, droning on about she knew not what, ignoring her suggestions that he take himself elsewhere.

Thirty minutes she'd tolerated him. Enough was enough. She made her way over to where the Count stood chatting with Lord Haurchefant. At least if she spoke with them, the insufferable Tibernus might _shut up_.

As he followed her, grabbing yet another glass of wine, he continued whatever tangent he'd wandered onto. She hadn't been listening, in hopes that he'd notice her inattention and perhaps stomp off to sulk. She wished she dared turn on him, tell him off in a way that even a village idiot couldn't misconstrue. But he was annoying, not threatening; not worth risking her hopefully imminent contract with House Fortemps.

As she approached, the Count smiled in her direction. However as she drew within speaking distance, his eyes shifted to the lordling sauntering at her heels, and his eyebrows drew down.

Nightbird twitched an ear in the young man's direction and heard the last of the sentence. “...those blasted dragoons.”

She came to a stop, and gave both the Count and Lord Haurchefant a polite nod. Then she turned, very slightly, and eyed Tibernus.

It was obvious now that he had drunk rather too much wine – his cheeks were rosy, his words slurred, and he swayed very slightly where he stood. His eyes were fixed on Nightbird, or rather on her chest. He didn't appear to notice who else was standing there.

“I beg your pardon?” She kept her voice level, and for the first time this evening she was actually glad of the heavy skirts that hid her tail from view. Otherwise it might have given away her agitation.

“Well!” The drunken lordling seemed chuffed that she had deigned to speak to him, and absolutely oblivious to the expression on her face – or the growing scowl on the faces of the two Fortemps men.

“The dragoons, my dear,” Tibernus repeated. “They're all of them dangerous at best, perilous close to heresy if you ask me. The only leash on those dogs is the Lord Commander.” His lip curled, and Nightbird saw Haurchefant's fingers tighten on his wine glass. “And after all, how far can one trust a man of such questionable breeding?”

Nightbird couldn't help but stare in astonishment. Was the man that drunk or that stupid?

“Your words are perilous close to treason,” the Count warned. “I shall not countenance such talk under my roof, young man.”

Tibernus seemed at last to notice the two Elezen, but he only sneered. “Count Fortemps, your compassion knows no bounds,” he answered. The way he said _compassion_ turned it into an insult. Then his eyes flicked to Lord Haurchefant before returning to Nightbird. “Always you take in the strays. Of course breeding means little to you.”

Nightbird's temper snapped. “I'm afraid you're right, my lord,” she said, her voice cold. “I have no lofty pedigree. My family cannot trace its lineage back a thousand years. And yet,” she let her tone drip with distaste, “It seems to me that the Dzemael line wants...refreshing. The blood must be growing thin indeed for a dullard to be allowed to run about thus.”

The Count turned his head, coughing into his hand. Lord Haurchefant didn't bother to hide his delighted grin.

Tibernus stared at her, his drunken brain taking a moment to work through what she'd said. Then his face reddened. His hand, at his side, curled into a fist. “Why you little...”

He took a single step closer to her, that fist beginning to rise.

“A man of good breeding,” Lord Haurchefant drawled, setting his wine glass aside, “does not lay hands on a lady.”

“Nor does a true nobleman offer violence when he is a guest in the home of his betters.” The Count was no longer smiling. His eyes glittered as he gestured to one of the liveried men that stood nearby.

“Perhaps,” Haurchefant continued, his smile razor sharp, “the youngster has merely partaken too heavily of the wine.”

“Then a good long walk will clear his head,” the Count answered. “Such as the stroll from here to his home.”

Tibernus went from red to pale. His mouth opened, and then closed. Nightbird could see him realizing how grave his error had been, and snorted very softly. When he glared at her, she glared right back.

“See that our guest makes his way safely home,” the Count ordered, and the liveried man bowed once, before turning to face the flummoxed lordling.

“My lord,” the man said, his hand held toward the younger man's elbow, not touching but making it clear that Tibernus was no longer welcome at the party.

Tibernus managed a perfunctory bow, and strode away, his shoulders stiff with rage.

“I must speak with that boy's father,” the Count growled, and then nodded to Nightbird. “Pray excuse me, Mistress Nightbird.”

She nodded back, and the older man strode off into the crowd.

Lord Haurchefant chuckled a little, and plucked a glass of white wine from a server's tray. “Might I suggest a drink?” he said to Nightbird, offering the wine with a gallant smile.

She accepted the glass, and he retrieved his own. He gestured with his glass and grinned a little. “A fine job of putting the young pup in his place,” he told her, and then drank.

She took a swallow of the wine, letting the bite of it give her something to focus on. She breathed deeply, and let go of her anger. Another swallow of wine, and she felt able to smile back at the still-grinning knight.

“You are incorrigible,” she told him. He laughed.

“I make a point of being so,” he answered, and winked at her.

She joined his laughter, and let herself forget the obnoxious lesser lord.

It was an hour past midnight when she finally returned to her room in Haillenarte Manor. She unlocked her door, went in, and locked the door behind her. Then she leaned her back against the door, sighing deeply, her eyes shut. The room was dark except for starlight trickling in through the window. She kicked off her shoes and shed the bolero that had covered her shoulders, and then plucked the shoes up in her fingers and carried both jacket and shoes to the tall armoire in the corner opposite the window.

“Welcome back.” The voice spoke from the deeper shadow near the window, where the starlight didn't reach.

Her ears wiggled a little, and she smiled.

“I wondered if you had forgotten,” Estinien continued, sounding annoyed.

“Hardly.” She stripped off her gown, and carefully hung it up. “I did tell you that I wouldn't leave without escort, and things ran later than expected.”

“Most men would not wait an hour past the promised time,” he grumbled.

She laughed softly as she shut the door of the armoire. “How lucky for me, then, that you are not like most men.” She turned her back towards him, and looked over her shoulder. “Come and unlace me, would you?”

He came across the room, his hair catching the starlight, his bare feet pale. He was wearing all black tonight, and looked devastatingly good in it, too. She hummed a little in appreciation.

He set his hands on her bare shoulders, and rubbed his thumbs along the back of her neck. Her hair was still pinned up, and he took advantage of its confinement, leaning in and brushing his lips across her skin. He paused as he caught a hint of her perfume, and breathed more deeply. Orange blossoms.

She smiled. “I thought perhaps you'd like that.”

He grunted, but then kissed the back of her neck once more. His hands moved down to the corset that circled her waist and nimbly plucked at the ties. As the stiff cloth fell away he slid his hands around her, cupping her breasts. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, sighing. With a wriggle of her hips the corset slithered down her body and hit the floor.

She lifted her hand to gently cup the back of his head, encouraging him as he nibbled the curve of her neck and shoulder. Already the desire rose in her, from just his touch.

His hands drifted down her belly, until he slipped his fingers under her smalls. She went up on her toes, arching a little, rocking her hips forward. Her tail thumped against his leg, and he made a pleased sound, low in his throat.

Then he tugged the flimsy cloth down, and Nightbird finished the job of getting them off of her with her free hand. Estinien immediately resumed caressing her, and she gasped and then moaned with pleasure.

She started to reach for the clips that held her stockings in place, but he set his hand over hers. “Leave them.”

Then he stepped back from her for a moment. Even as she turned to face him she heard him opening his pants.

Before she could speak, he had his arms around her, the ties of his pants dangling and tickling her even as he cupped her bottom and lifted her.

She laughed a little even as she wrapped her legs around his waist. “So impatient?” she teased, kissing him.

“ Perhaps I am tired of waiting,” he retorted.

“Oh?” She toyed with his hair a little. “Are you upset with me? Shall I appease you?”

He only growled in response, and she chuckled quietly. He carried her to the bed, and set her down, so that she was perched on the edge. He kissed her, one hand firm and warm on her back.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, and his other hand slipped down to her sex. She hissed as his fingers slipped inside of her, and her head slipped down to rest against his chest. Her hands flexed on his shoulders, the tips of her nails pricking his skin through his shirt, ever so slightly.

He whispered as he worked his fingers against her. “I want you wet,” he told her, his breath tickling the fur of her ear. “You made me stand here waiting for you, thinking about what I want to do to you, until I _ached_ from it. Open for me, my sweet, my little bird...”

She shuddered, and the sound she made was something between a laugh and a whimper. Her sex dripped across his hand, and she was astonished at just how quickly he had brought her to the state he wanted. He withdrew his fingers, but before she could protest, his cock was pressing against her. She could feel the leather of his pants as he lifted her bottom just enough to slide the tip of his cock against her entrance.

Estinien's hands cradled her ass, the fingertips digging into the soft flesh as he entered her.

“Oh...Estinien...!”

Her cries made him shiver all over, struggling to maintain control. Wet as she was, gloriously slick and willing and ready, he wanted to hilt himself in her. But he knew it would hurt her if he started too fast. He bit his lip, feeling how her muscles trembled around him and under his hands, and forced his body to wait.

Pressed close, both of them panting, he buried his face against her neck once more. Inhaling deeply, the scent of orange blossoms and musk filling his head, the feel of her surrounding him, not just his cock but his soul...he trembled from more than mere lust.

The word that floated across his mind made him flinch away mentally, and he fixed his attention on the physical feelings.

He began to thrust into her, gently, listening to her whimpers and gasps as he nibbled her neck a little, kissed her collarbone and then took her mouth with his once more.

Nightbird's arms went around his neck as she responded to his kiss, and her legs clenched on him. Abruptly she was in control, working her hips against him, fucking herself on his cock at a furious pace.

He groaned, giving in to her. He drowned in her kisses, in her body, and was glad of it. He felt his body racing towards climax and tried to hold back, tried to slip his fingers against her to see to her pleasure.

Her nails bit into his shoulders and she growled. “Give it to me.” Her breath was hot against his skin. “Give it all to me, Estinien, all of you, give...ahh...!”

He shuddered as her walls clamped down on him. He let go of her ass with one hand to bury his fingers in her hair, knocking some of the pins loose. He cried out as he came, the sound feeling torn from his chest. She took his face in her hands and kissed him hard, swallowing his cries, her own body quaking as she joined him in ecstasy.

He staggered forward, catching himself with his palms on the bed. Nightbird let him go, scooting herself across the blankets as she disentangled her limbs.

Light-headed, he simply watched without moving as she crawled up the bed a little way, stopping short of the pillows. She flopped onto her belly, her face turned towards him. Her hair was half pinned up and half in her face, but the grin on her lips made him smile back.

He pushed off the bed and stumbled over to the little bedside table. His hands were shaking badly, but he managed nonetheless to light the small candle that waited there.

As the flame brightened he shucked his pants off, and tugged his shirt over his head before tossing it to one side.

She held her hand out to him, and he climbed into the bed to join her.

He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the faint chill on her skin. She wriggled against him, her tail tangling around his leg even as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

“Are you all right?” he murmured into her hair, and felt her sigh.

“Very much so,” she answered. “I told you, I'm not made of glass.”

“No, but you are small,” he replied, and stopped himself before he could admit more.

They stayed silent for a moment, and he touched her hair, gingerly tugging at the remaining pins so as not to pull, until at last the ebony tresses were freed to slide against his fingers.

“Tell me truly,” she said as he combed his fingers through her hair, “are you upset with me?”

He leaned back a little and put his fingers under her chin so that he could look at her face. The expression she showed him was curious, and nothing more. He relaxed. Of course she wasn't the sort of woman to wring her hands and worry over something. She was as direct and honest as any of his dragoons, really – even if she _was_ shorter than the smallest lance in the armory.

“I shall never be upset with _you_ ,” he told her. Then he laid a kiss on her forehead and then on her lips, and gathered her close again.

“Good,” and she yawned. “Another way in which you are not like other men I have known.”

“Oh?”

She didn't elaborate, and he realized that she was in fact beginning to fall asleep.

“You're going to get chilled, you know.”

“You'll keep me warm,” she sighed. The trust in her voice sent a pang through him.

He held her as she grew still, his eyes staring into the softly scented darkness.

What in Halone's name had he gotten himself into?

He had been fascinated by her exotic looks, enchanted by her songs. Her voice had seduced him so thoroughly...but no, it wasn't just that. The way she looked at him with those amber eyes – she saw him. He didn't mean to let her see, didn't want her to know, and yet she saw him...and she didn't recoil. She didn't do anything at all. Did she know what horrors he had seen, what cruelties he had perpetrated with his own hands? Did she see the ugly thing that his soul had become as the years and the hate etched away at him?

No. She couldn't possibly see everything so clearly and still look at him that way. She wouldn't smile at him if she truly understood. She wouldn't trust him.

 _Fury grant she_ _ **never**_ _sees it all, then_.

He ran his hands over her, burying his face in her hair, eyes shut tightly. He concentrated on her scent, on the satin feel of her skin under his fingers and his palms. Savored each sensation and then carefully memorized it, stored it away deep in his memory, a sweet balm saved against those darker times that would come, whether he willed it or not.

So intent was he on his exploration of her that he missed the moment she woke from her doze. Only when her tail came up to stroke his back did he pause, and look up at her from where he had been kissing the upper curves of her breasts.

Her amber eyes glowed in the candlelight. “So hungry,” she whispered. “Have you been so very starved of affection, my dragoon?”

His breath hitched as he caught the possessive. He hesitated, not knowing what to say, not wanting to look away from her, and yet completely unable to tell her what he truly felt.

And once again those eyes saw into him, with devastating clarity. And once again, she simply _accepted_ whatever she saw there. Accepted, and smiled, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead to lay a soft kiss there with her beautiful mouth.

“Sh,” she whispered. “It's all right.”

He shivered and dropped his head to her chest, his nose nestled between the soft globes of her breasts. “Nothing is all right,” he growled, and felt her delicate fingers soothing his back, his hair, almost as if he were a fretful child.

“Then I will stay by your side until it is,” she murmured, kissing his hair. “For this little time, you don't have to be alone with it.”

How did she _know?_

But suddenly he didn't care how or why she knew what to say. He was too glad of her words, of her presence, of her hands in his hair and her body in his arms. He crushed her to him, his cheek against her chest bone.

He couldn't understand the words she murmured, but the meaning didn't matter. The _sound_ of her voice poured over him, and again he felt that she had surrounded him completely, in ways he couldn't comprehend. In ways he ought to fear, to loathe, to avoid.

He had felt this way before, years ago, before he'd ever picked up a lance, before he'd known what hatred really was. He had never thought to feel _safe_ again.

 _To feel loved_.

He trembled in her arms, and she held him through the storm of emotions that raged through him, until at last it went the way of all storms.

He collected himself, bit by bit, and lifted his head to look into her face once more.

“What have you done to me?” His whisper was hoarse, his voice still shaking.

“Only what any good friend should do,” she soothed. Her thumbs wiped away the dampness on his cheeks. “Feeling a little better?”

He could only nod, unable to articulate _how much better_ it felt. The hatred wasn't gone – only a fool would have expected _that_ – but the pressure was lessened, and the relief was indescribable.

She accepted his silence, and kissed him.

Then her hands drifted down his belly, and he murmured as she began to delicately tease him.

“I'd like an encore,” she told him, her words laced with a hint of laughter.


	5. Just A Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien learns a thing or two about Nightbird.

She closed the door and set her pack down beside it with a heavy sigh. Even now, hours after the battle was over, she still felt unsettled. She rubbed her temples, and started across the room towards the large dresser. Did she still have some of that lavender scented liniment...?

There was a click from her window.

She hadn't unstrapped her bow yet, and in one smooth motion she snatched it off her back and drew, an arrow in her fingers, aiming at the intruder.

“Oi,” he growled. “It's only me.” Estinien stood still, his helm under his arm, glowering.

Nightbird blinked once and stood down, replacing her arrow and lowering her bow arm.

Estinien eyed her, warily. “Since when are you an archer?” he asked. “And where were you that you needed a bow, anyway?”

She shook her head, not answering, and turned to lean her bow against the wall and unstrapped the quiver, setting it with the bow.

She eased out of her jacket, as Estinien looked on, and set it across the back of the chair set near the dresser. She sat down on the chair, bending to unlace the spike-heeled boots. Only after she had the first boot off did she speak.

“I was in the Tailfeather area, on a job.”

“A job? I thought you worked for the Count de Fortemps,” Estinien observed. “Surely you're not telling me the Count sent his singer out on some sort of daft errand in the wilderness.”

“Indeed he didn't send me. I was with a hunting party of Centurio members, culling the bear population a bit.” She took off the other boot and straightened. “And don't call me Shirley.”

Estinien frowned. “What?”

“Never mind,” she shook her head with a tired smile. “A very, very old joke.”

Then she winced as the bandage over her arm slipped.

Estinien's eyes widened, then narrowed. “You're injured.” He set his helm down and strode over to her, grabbing her wrist so that he could inspect her arm. “You're _bleeding_.” His tone was accusatory. “Why in the seven hells are you not in the infirmary right now?”

Nightbird yanked her wrist free, glaring up at him. “I don't need to be in the infirmary. I'm fine.”

“That bandage is soaked through,” he snapped. “And that looks like a sword cut. Do the bears in the Forelands go about armed, now?”

“Back off!” Nightbird's voice rose. “I told you, I'm fine! Stop fussing over me like an auntie!”

Estinien's hands curled into fists at his sides. He stalked away a few steps, and then turned to face her again. “You still haven't explained why you were out there in the first place.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Does the Count not pay enough?”

Her amber eyes flashed at him as she stood up, going over to the dresser. She opened a drawer and rummaged in it. He could see the tension in her back, the anger in her sharp motions. Her tail lashed and her ears were flat to her head.

“Answer me,” he growled.

“You don't deserve an answer,” she said, her voice cold. “You are not my master, not my superior officer. You have no right to demand a single damned thing from me, dragoon.”

His jaw dropped. “So I cannot even express some slight concern for you when you stand before me _bleeding_?”

“Your idea of expressing concern looks a lot like being an overbearing ass!” She turned to face him, her eyes wide, her teeth bared. “I don't need to be lectured like a wet eared kit! I've fought before, sir dragoon, I am no fainting flower, and you have no right to be angry at me for living my life!”

“I'm not angry with you,” he bit out.

“Aren't you?” She gestured at him. “Listen to yourself, Estinien! You're biting my head off!”

“You're a singer! You're not supposed to go fling yourself into danger! Who do you think you are, the bloody damn Warrior of Light?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, because I am!”

He stepped close to her, so that she had to crane her neck to look into his face. His voice dropped to a quieter volume, but his words dripped with derision. “You're delusional,” he told her. “I've met the bloody damn Warrior of Light. She's a tall red-headed Roe with a mucking great axe on her back and a foul mouth.”

“ _Delusional?_ ” Nightbird hissed. She reached into a pouch at her waist and pulled something out. Turning slightly she slapped her hand down on the dresser. When she lifted her hand, a white soul stone lay on the white cloth. She set a second soul stone down, the polished green stone making a loud clack as it struck the dresser. Then she reached into the pouch and pulled out a third thing.

The crystal chimed as it landed on the dresser, glowing a soft blue.

Estinien stared.

“I bear a crystal from the Mother,” Nightbird told him, biting each word off. “I am a bard, bearer of the blessed song. And I am a mage of the White. The proof lies before your eyes, dragoon. Do you still think me _delusional?_ ”

Estinien's voice was harsh. “I don't understand. Berylla – the Roe – said she was the only Warrior of Light.”

“Well she told you wrong.”

He dragged his eyes away from the glowing crystal, and scowled. “You're still hurt. Do you plan to ignore that?”

“I was about to treat my wounds, before you started yelling.” She glowered up at him.

He reddened slightly, and turned away to walk back to the window. He stood still, as if staring out at the view, and Nightbird shook her head and turned back to her medicines, tail still lashing.

She left the soul stones and the crystal on the dresser, and measured out a hefty dose of painkiller. She mixed the concentrated tonic into a glass of water and knocked it back, grimacing at the bitter taste. Then she removed the bandage over her arm, and eased her shirt off. She wore a halter top beneath everything, rather than any sort of lingerie. The lacy things she wore under her performing clothes wouldn't survive a day in the field.

She examined the long, shallow slice critically, and sighed. She shut her eyes, and concentrated, calling up the necessary aether, focusing it into her hand. Her palm glowed a little, and the cut sealed over. Not fully healed, but the thick, dark red scab would protect it well enough until the morrow.

Her ears twitched as she heard Estinien's armor creaking.

She turned her head to look at him. His mouth was set in a thin, tight line, mulish and angry. But his eyes were full of worry.

She turned back towards the dresser. She lifted the shirt, and grimaced. It wanted a good cleaning and then she'd see if she could salvage the sleeve. She set it aside and picked up the bottle of liniment.

Armor creaked again, and she turned around in time to see Estinien shedding his gauntlets, then the rest of his armor. She simply watched. Not even being angry with him lessened the instant warming of her core as she looked at him. He was altogether too handsome.

A pair of extremely tight fitting black pants lay under the armor, and an equally tight fitting, sleeveless black top. She bit her lip a little as he bent to arrange the pieces of his armor into a tidier pile underneath the window. The tight fabric hugged his thighs and his ass, and the way his muscles shifted beneath that covering made her nearly moan with lust. Her tail shivered a little.

She hastily averted her face as Estinien straightened. She controlled her expression and looked back, and he was within arm's length of her when she looked up.

He stood still, not coming closer, and gestured at the bottle in her hand. “Do you want some help applying that?”

She eyed him for a moment, then handed the bottle over. “It would help. Thank you.”

She sat down in the chair, her back to him, and slipped off the halter top.

Estinien noted how her tail had ceased its angry thrashing, and how her ears were still half way flattened down. He opened the bottle and poured some of the thick lotion into his palm. Reaching over Nightbird's shoulder he set the bottle down on the dresser, and then he set his palms together, making sure that both hands had a dollop of the liniment.

Then he set his hands on her shoulders, lightly, and began to carefully rub. He was no stranger to such ministrations – having been on the receiving end as well as giving no few massages to his fellow dragoons from time to time. His fingers and thumbs moved in small circles, and he applied the exact amount of pressure that would do the most good toward helping the knotted muscles relax.

As he felt those tense muscles finally begin to let go, he spoke quietly.

“I'm sorry for yelling.”

Her left ear perked up, then flattened again. “Why did you even come here today? I thought you had night patrol for another few days.”

“Roster changed,” he answered. “I thought I'd come let you know about it...”

“And you couldn't simply send a message?”

“Why? I'd rather speak to you in person.”

“You mean you'd rather get your hands on me.” Her voice rippled a little.

“Well, I have gotten my wish, then, haven't I?”

She sighed, and then hissed a little as he encountered a particularly bad knot of tension. He concentrated on it, and after a moment her head sagged forward with relief.

“Will you tell me what happened, now?” he asked.

She shook her head a little. “Not right now.”

He frowned down at her as she shifted forward, to turn and look up at him with an expression that he would have called “puppy eyes” on anyone else. And after calling them out on it, he would have mocked them mercilessly.

She looked utterly adorable.

“I'm starving,” she told him. “And since I don't think you're going to carry baskets of food across the roofs of Ishgard, I need to go find something to eat.”

“I might carry _one_ basket of food,” he replied. “If you asked nicely enough.”

When she laughed quietly at his sally, he smiled, as much with relief as with humor.

“If you're willing to wait for me? I promise I won't be very long, but I really must eat.”

“I will be here. You, ah, are going to put on a shirt, I hope.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and got up from the chair. She took a tunic out of her dresser and slipped it over her head, and then slid her feet into a pair of simple sandals. She went to the door, and looked over her shoulder at him. “Be right back.”

The door shut quietly, and Estinien stood there for a moment, his hands tingling just a little from the liniment.

He went over to the basin of water to wash his hands, and then wandered around the room for a few minutes. He frowned at his own restlessness, and made himself sit down on the bed.

He stared at the bow that leaned against the wall. It was a huge war bow, damn near as tall as Nightbird herself. He had seen designs like it, and knew them to have a wickedly strong draw. She could probably pierce a dragon's hide with a well placed shot. A _smallish_ dragon, but still.

For a moment he wondered what it might be like, to fight at her side. The idea pleased him, but he pushed it away for now.

Of more importance was his own reactions. He would never have spoken to a fellow dragoon in such a way. Plenty of the dragoons were female. He'd seen them bleeding from wounds far worse than the single cut Nightbird had suffered. He had never reacted with such vitriol, not even when he had been dealing with raw recruits who'd made foolish mistakes and gotten themselves hurt.

So what was different?

He had seen her in action before, in that alley. He couldn't claim to have believed her utterly helpless. He was pretty sure she would be very angry if he tried.

But remembering how she had winced, and how the blood had seeped through the white bandage even as he looked on...something quivered in his belly.

He had been _scared_ for her. And had opened his mouth without thinking first.

Of course she'd been angry with him. He'd acted like an idiot, and gotten exactly what he deserved for it.

At least she hadn't thrown him out.

He'd just have to make it up to her.


	6. The Ribbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien prepares a surprise for Nightbird, by way of apology.

Nightbird made her way along the corridors to the big kitchen on the main floor. Haillenarte Manor sprawled outward and upward – the house had fanciful spires and half a dozen whimsically designed chimneys, not to mention the extensive gardens. There was no shortage of cellar space, but all in all the place was designed not unlike the stately houses of the Gridanian nobility.

House Fortemps looked a great deal smaller on the outside. Only after moving in had Nightbird discovered how large the place really was, and how much lay, quite literally, beneath the surface.

On her first day here, she had been shown about by Honoroit – a charming young man, and only later did she discover that he was no mere page – and he had explained that most of the residence was carved directly into the mountain. Rooms with windows were at something of a premium because of that – only the first three floors beneath the main one were so graced. But no one minded the lack of windows, for the inner rooms were cozy and comfortable at any season. The only drawback was that the lower levels were something of a maze.

Still, the architects of this place had built with an eye towards efficiency and a certain kindness towards the servants. The fourth floor held an enormous combined kitchen and eating hall, and there was always something on offer, even in the middle of the night – fruit, yesterday's bread, sometimes cheese or cold meats. Nightbird knew that she could get herself a bite to eat there without a single comment from anyone. And, perhaps the under-cook in charge would let her take a basket back to her room.

She grabbed a plate and loaded it down with fruit, bread, and a wedge of white cheese, then snagged the last pieces of bacon from a platter. She carried her loot to a table and sat down. She ate neatly, but without even looking up from the plate. As her hunger was eased, some of her irritation faded.

But she was still very annoyed with Estinien.

She hadn't expected to see him, just as she had said. That was one reason why she'd gone along with the Clan on their hunt. Another being that she needed to familiarize herself with more of the territory. Her sources indicated that there might be heavy fighting soon in the Forelands. Best to scout the place and be somewhat prepared...

She hadn't anticipated the strange bug-men – the Gnath, the locals had called them. Hideous creatures, with their clicking and their twitching. But their blades and their muskets had been far more of a concern.

One had got through, and slashed her arm before she had been able to react. She'd done for the creature with a dagger to its eye, but she'd been out of the fight after that. In the chaos she couldn't concentrate enough to invoke a new soul crystal. So she'd put her back to one of the massive trees and kept her dagger ready. Once the others had killed or run off the attackers, she'd called up her healing abilities, and provided aid to the injured. Exhausted, she had only had enough energy left to dull her own pain and bind up her arm.

The villagers at Tailfeather had been very grateful for the work done, at least. And the Clan had not chided her like a green recruit.

But Estinien...she bit into a pear, trying not to snarl. Did he imagine she'd flung herself into the fray like...like a dragoon? Did he truly think her some kind of fool?

But as she finished with the fruit, she sighed. She knew why he had been upset. She'd seen protectiveness before, after all. In a few things, he was very much like most men.

She sighed and took her plate to be cleaned. Then she spoke to the under-cook, and negotiated with him for a few minutes. At last he accepted a handful of coins in exchange for a basket loaded down with food – most of it things that would not make it through the night in any event.

She carried the basket back up the stairs to her room on the second floor. She hesitated in front of the door, taking a long breath to calm the sudden flutter in her belly. Then she turned the handle and stepped inside.

The window was closed and the curtains had been drawn against the glare of the sun. The armor remained where it had been, and she let out a small sigh of relief. He hadn't left, then.

She set the basket down on the chair. Her bed was screened from view of the door, and Nightbird stepped toward the screen, looking for the dragoon.

A piece of clothing – black and wadded up – sailed over the screen before she'd taken two steps.

She paused, her head tilting, ears perked. “Estinien?”

She heard him chuckle, but he didn't speak. Her tail curved into an S, and her curiosity took her a couple of steps closer. “Estinien, what are you up to?”

“About half mast, at the moment.”

Her breath caught, and then she giggled. “Only half?”

More cloth went sailing over the screen, and as it landed she saw that he'd thrown his trousers this time. Her mouth went a little dry and she took another step closer.

“Stay over there,” he told her.

“What? But why?”

“Because I'm not done getting ready.”

Her brow wrinkled even as she laughed. “Have you become a blushing maiden? What _are_ you doing?”

“You'll see.” There was a faint sound – cloth sliding, perhaps? Then he hissed a little, and muttered. She heard the bed springs creaking a little.

“Now,” he said.

She stepped past the screen.

Her eyes went wide.

Estinien knelt in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but a wide red ribbon, tied in a somewhat awkward bow around his cock.

Nightbird's voice trembled with laughter and lust. “What's all this? Not that I mind...such a festive sight.”

His cheeks were a little pink. “Call it a peace offering. To make up for acting like an idiot earlier.”

“An apology?” Her eyes danced.

“With a bow on it, even.”

Her laugh was low as she let her gaze travel across him.

“So this means that I can do with you as I please?”

He nodded. In his lap, the bow fluttered a little.

Nightbird licked her lips, and slipped off her sandals. Then she crawled onto the bed, and right up to Estinien. She placed one hand on his chest, pushing gently so that he leaned back, until he had to set his hands on the bed to balance himself.

Even as he leaned, she lowered her head. Her breath was hot across his groin, and her hair tickled him. She leaned on one hand, while she trailed the fingers of her other hand down his chest and belly.

He felt her lips brushing against him, feather light, and his breath hitched.

But then she was tugging on the ribbon – with her _teeth_ , he realized, as he felt the graze of her fang against his cock.

She pulled it free with ease – he was shite at tying ribbons, no surprise that it hadn't given her trouble.

Then she leaned up, the red ribbon held in her teeth, and pushed him again, easing herself forward farther and farther until he was on his back. His thighs protested for a moment until he managed to straighten his legs out.

Nightbird reached behind her and pulled a small knife from a sheath at the small of her back.

She took the ribbon out of her mouth and cut it in half with the knife, then set the little blade down on the night stand.

Then she slid her hands along his left arm, guiding it up until the back of his hand met the bedpost. With swift motions, she took one half of the ribbon and tied his wrist to the bed.

When she leaned across him to repeat the process with his right arm, he nuzzled at her breasts, though her tunic was in the way. She shivered but didn't pause, until she had secured his other wrist to the bed as well.

The bed was a modest size: his arms didn't strain at all as he let them relax, let the ribbon take some of the weight. He could feel the knots she had tied tightening, but it didn't trouble him. This was all part of the game now, and so he remained still.

She sat up, straddling him, and he sucked in a breath as she rubbed against his cock. She grinned down at him, and then climbed off.

He made a small noise, not a whine _at all_ , turning his head to watch her. She reached out and touched his nose with one nail. “Be right back.”

She whisked herself past the screen, but before he could complain, she was back with...he eyed her.

“What are you going to do with that?”

She hefted the peach in her hand, and tilted her head, an exaggerated pose of “thinking.”

“I think I shall make a bit of a mess.”

She picked up the knife.

Estinien watched in fascination as she neatly sliced the fruit – a single cut, all the way around. It was quite ripe, and juice immediately ran down the blade. Setting the blade aside, she twisted, separating the halves. Carefully she set one half – the half with no stone in it – beside the knife.

Then she held the other half over him, no more than three inches above his skin, and squeezed. The juice of the peach oozed across her fingers and dripped onto his belly. His skin shivered at the cool stickiness of it. Her tongue swept across her lips as she moved her hand, and squeezed again, anointing his chest with a few drops.

Without setting the mangled peach half down, she leaned down, and licked the juice off his skin.

His nipples both hardened immediately, and he hissed a little. He had to force himself to remain still as she laid feathery kisses along him, and then licked him clean again on his belly where she had first dripped juice on him. Her lips touched him so softly that it tickled, and he twitched, unable to stop himself.

She chuckled.

Estinien's cock, fully hard now, was her next target. The poor abused peach half didn't have much left to give, but she crushed it anyway, and then set it aside only to work him with the same hand. Sticky juice was all over him, and normally he would have been rather disgusted by the mess.

But the surge of lust as he watched her lick her lips once more, and then set her mouth against his tip, wiped almost every thought right out of his head.

She kept her hand on him, gently stroking his base as she treated his glans like a candy. She licked and sucked, and he groaned softly, “Little bird...”

She raised her eyes to his, and held his gaze as she very slowly ran her tongue from the base of his shaft to the tip. As she swept the tip of her tongue across the head, Estinien could see a pearly drop of fluid emerge, only to be devoured.

His hips bucked a little.

Nightbird grinned.

She let him go for a moment, only to crawl onto the bed again, placing herself between his knees. She leaned in, and guided his cock into her mouth before setting her hands on his hips.

She swallowed him whole, and he groaned, loudly, his body trying to thrust up against her, to fuck her mouth.

Nightbird's hands held him down, and for the first time since he'd known her, he truly felt her strength. He groaned again.

She lavished attention on his cock, until he was panting for breath, on the very edge of coming.

Then she let him go.

His cock fell against his belly with a wet slap, and he squinted at her, breathing hard. Sweat gleamed on his skin. This time he whined without shame.

Her beautiful mouth pursed and her eyebrows rose. Her amber eyes glittered as she purred at him.

She sat up, and yanked her tunic off, wiping her hand with it a bit before tossing it to the floor.

Then, she unbuckled the belt and all its pouches, and let it slide to the floor, where it landed with a clunk.

Then, she set her hands on her thighs, fingers spread out, and dragged them up, so that they caught the hem of the skirt. Estinien's panting became faster as he watched the tantalizing motion. When the skirt had ridden up high enough, he moaned, realizing she wore no smalls at all.

She crawled up his body, tormenting him with the barest brushes of her body against his needy member. She kissed him, lustily, and then pressed her lips to his jaw, her breath warm against his skin and tickling his ear a little.

“I want you to use that tongue of yours,” she whispered. “And not for talking.”

Her tail brushed across his cock and his eyes rolled back in his head for a moment. The noise he made was somewhere between a moan and a gasp.

“Say you want to use your mouth on me,” she told him.

Estinien shuddered. “Let me taste you, little bird. Ride my face until you come.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.

She hummed, pleased, and the sound sent more shivers of lust through him. His wrists tugged against his restraints for a moment as his control slipped.

“Shh,” Nightbird soothed him with another kiss. She didn't plan to leave him wanting _forever_...but she wasn't going to tell him that. Then she settled herself, carefully, over his face.

Estinien's tongue lashed against her clitoris before he delved inside her. She moaned in approval, and let her tail tease his cock again.

She felt him react and hummed in pleasure once more, her head tilting back. She was far more turned on than she'd thought at first. All her annoyance with him vanished as she gave herself over to the things he was doing to her.

Estinien felt almost drunk on the taste of her as he eagerly licked and sucked at her. She had already been wet, dripping even, and he could feel her thighs quivering every time his tongue stroked against her most sensitive places. His cock ached with wanting her, and her tail – that damned, wonderful, maddening tail – kept on tormenting him, flicking against him.

When she stiffened and cried out, he was taken a bit by surprise, but he lapped up her juices without letting a drop escape him. She must have been incredibly worked up to come so fast. Well, so was he.

Shuddering she pulled away from him, tumbling off to one side. One arm stayed draped across his chest as she lay on her belly, and he could hear her whining softly under her breath as she panted.

He craned his neck, trying to reach some part of her to kiss, and she stirred and pushed herself up.

The amber of her eyes was nearly gone, her pupils dilated wide. She moved slowly, clambering over him, and presently she was once more astride his body.

She leaned over, and picked up the knife again. Stretching carefully she cut the now-tight ribbons, releasing his wrists, before putting the knife back.

He reached for her, but she caught his hands with hers and tangled their fingers together.

She held his gaze as she wriggled her hips in a manner that probably looked obscene from another angle. But however it looked, it was effective: her sex captured his cock, and then she sat up, balancing herself against his hands.

His vision grayed out as she drove herself down on him, a motion far faster than he would have allowed if he'd been in control. By the time he could see again, she was riding him, her eyes half shut, tiny whimpers escaping her every time she took him fully.

Nightbird ground her hips against him, glorying in how he filled her. She watched him even as her eyes tried to close, saw his mouth open as if to speak. But only incoherent moans escaped his lips. His silver hair stuck to his face in a couple of places and his belly and chest gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat as his muscles flexed. He worked his hips against her, bouncing her on his cock, and she tilted her head back and keened as she came and came and came...

She felt him shudder, heard his voice, and then he was exploding within her. She couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think – for an instant she felt sure she'd die from the pleasure that stole her breath and locked her muscles.

And then she fell across his chest, utterly spent, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she gasped and trembled. His arms folded around her, and he withdrew even as he turned on his side so that he could cuddle her more closely. She curled up against him, her head on his bicep. She loved how, even exhausted and shaking, he couldn't stop touching her.

She wished she could tell him how she really felt about him. But for all his protectiveness, for all his vulnerability with her...she still didn't know if he'd accept those words.


	7. A Coming Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird meets up with her mentor, and brings Estinien along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, this chapter takes place just before the "Bloody Banquet," and about a week before Berylla and friends arrive in Ishgard.

Estinien's heart was still pounding, his mind still hazy with pleasure. But he cradled Nightbird to him and pressed his lips to her hair. “My precious little bird,” he whispered.

A fine predicament he'd put himself into. He hadn't told Nightbird quite the whole truth. He had, indeed, been scheduled for night patrol for the next three days. But he had been the one to change the roster, and he'd done it for no better reason than so that he could see her.

Her kisses, her touch...and most of all, her _voice_ – he was addicted to her. He struggled to keep his mind on his patrols within the city. Out in the field, his focus was as sharp as ever – but there was very little within the walls of Ishgard that presented a worry for him. And so his mind wandered – unacceptable as that alone was, the fact that he was daydreaming about her hair, the modestly pink circles of her nipples...

When he'd made the change to the schedule he had told himself that it wasn't because he was lusting after Nightbird. He would indulge in her, until he'd had a surfeit. Then, surely, he would be able to put distance between them as he should have done that very first morning.

“Estinien.”

Her voice was so quiet he nearly didn't hear her. “What?”

Nightbird stroked his chest with her fingers. “Where on earth did you get that ribbon?”

He shrugged slightly, his shoulder rolling under her head. “Went across the hall.”

“You just walked across the hall.” Her voice was quivering. “Just knocked on a random door and asked for a ribbon?”

“The girl didn't seem to mind too much.”

Nightbird began to shake, and Estinien looked down at her, concerned.

Her hand was over her mouth and her shoulders were shaking, her eyes were wide and...

“What's so funny?”

She shook her head, helpless with giggles. Estinien's own mouth curved upward, just listening to the merry sound. Then his eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief and he dragged his nails across her ribs, very lightly.

She curled up, laughing, clamping her arms to her sides. He tickled her until she was gasping for breath and begging him to stop.

She collapsed against him, the top of her head pressed against his arm as she lay on her belly, catching her breath.

He reached for her ear, running a single finger along the edge of it. It twitched, then flattened.

“Stop that.” Her voice was muffled.

He teased the ear again.

“Estinien, so help me, I will _bite_ you if you don't leave my ear alone.”

“So vehement,” he chuckled. But he began to toy with her hair instead, not quite combing it. Instead he tugged at the tresses just a bit, lifted them, and let them slip through his fingers.

Presently she pushed herself up, folding her arms beneath her and looking at him.

“What sort of details do you really want to know about my trip to the Forelands?” she asked him, her gaze steady.

His lips twisted a little. “Whatever you're willing to tell me, I suppose.”

So she told him, quietly, about the unexpected ambush. His brows lowered. “I have not traveled in those lands often. I was aware that the Gnath existed, but not that they had become aggressive.”

“The clan members and the townsfolk alike had no idea why we were attacked.” Nightbird's voice was pensive. “It might mean nothing, or it might mean something bad is coming.”

Estinien grunted in agreement. “No point worrying about it right now.”

“True.” She snuggled a little closer, then paused. “We're both of us rather sticky.”

“And whose fault is that?” he teased.

She kissed the end of his nose. “Yours, of course.”

As he spluttered, halfway between indignation and laughter, she rolled out of the bed and walked over to the stand where a pitcher and a basin waited.

He sat up, and watched her for a moment as she began to wash herself with a cloth, quite as relaxed as if he weren't even there. He wasn't unfamiliar with seeing females bathing – sometimes there just wasn't a choice and he had bathed alongside all his dragoons without blinking an eye. But even then, the females had always been just a little wary, shy – always first to get finished and pull their clothes back on. Nightbird was utterly confident, even naked with her back to him.

When he stood up and joined her, she looked up at him and smiled, coyly. “Do you want to wash my back for me?”

He laughed quietly and took the cloth from her hand.

While not quite as thorough or as pleasant as a real bath would have been, both of them found a great deal of soothing from the simple act of cleansing each other's skin.

“Come,” Nightbird tugged on Estinien's hand.

He followed her willingly enough, past the partition and into the main part of the room again. He saw the basket sitting on the chair she had used earlier.

“You weren't joking about _baskets_ of food, were you?”

She chuckled. “If I have anything to say about it,” she trailed one finger down his arm, “You and I both are going to need plenty of energy...”

Estinien woke – all at once, as was his habit – and held still, wondering what had pricked him into alertness.

There. A noise. A...whimper?

Nightbird wasn't in the bed beside him.

He got up, and listened hard. Moving with sure steps despite the dark, he found her, tucked into a corner, her knees up to her chest, tail and ears clamped tightly to herself. Her eyes were squeezed shut and tears glimmered on her face.

“Little bird?” He knelt in front of her, and reached out to touch her shoulder. His arm brushed against her and she squeaked, jamming herself tighter in the corner.

Her eyes opened, and he saw how her pupils were tiny pinpricks. He knew then that she wasn't seeing him, or anything else. He had seen plenty of his own dragoons suffer night terrors. There was naught to be done, for now, except to sit with her, watch over her, until she dragged herself out of the nightmare.

So he did just that, arranging himself so that he was sitting cross-legged, leaning against the wall, not crowding her space but close enough to catch her, should she try to go anywhere.

He wasn't waiting long – perhaps five minutes more, and sense came back to her eyes, the irises relaxing and her muscles going a little slack. She blinked a few times, then rubbed her eyes with careful fingers. Then she registered his presence.

“Did I wake you up? I'm sorry.”

“Is it something you can talk about?”

She hesitated. “Just...old memories. Sometimes it happens like this. Sometimes I'm not asleep first.” Her smile was wan. “Less often, nowadays.”

He held his hand out toward her, and she uncoiled herself, wincing a little. Instead of taking his hand however she crawled into his lap, settling her head on his shoulder, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat.

“Don't worry about me,” she murmured. “I'm all right.”

He cradled her close and kissed her hair, and didn't answer.

He knew quite well how it was, to hold something in your heart that you didn't talk about. Couldn't talk about. He knew that he would worry for her anyway, and he wouldn't lie to her to say otherwise.

She got up, and tugged him back towards the bed. They cuddled together under the blankets until her chilled skin had warmed, and she fell asleep in his arms.

He set his lips to her hair and cursed himself.

He ought to stop seeing her. Now. Before he got even more entangled than he already was. Before he brought her more pain, more nightmares. It was the only sane thing to do.

For both of their sakes.

The third day started with a knock on Nightbird's door.

Yawning, she pulled on a robe and went to answer it. Meanwhile Estinien took advantage of being the only one in the bed and stretched, feeling joints pop that had stiffened from a night of sleeping pinned underneath his lover's body. Not that he minded. He woke up with various aches and pains anyway.

She hadn't come back yet when he finished stretching, though he had heard the door shut. So, he got up and sauntered out into the main part of her room. Perhaps he could tempt her into being late for her morning rehearsal this time. Yesterday he had tried – but she'd escaped him.

But he stopped and frowned as he saw her pulling on clothes. “What's all this, then?”

“A message from an old friend. Something important. He wants to meet with me.”

“He?” Estinien clamped down on his own reactions before he growled. As it was, the single word came out sounding angry.

Nightbird looked up at him as she tugged on a pair of very tight, very red leather pants. She frowned for a moment, then padded over to him. “The man is an older, more experienced bard than I,” she told him. “He and I share information. I suspect what he has to say will impact Ishgard, otherwise he wouldn't be in the city.”

“Then I should go with you.”

She winked. “That's why I told you.” Then she tapped the end of his nose. “You may want to get dressed, though. I don't mind the view, but it's a bit chilly outside.”

He mock-growled and pulled her to him for a lusty kiss. She laughed against his mouth.

“Make him wait a few more minutes,” he suggested, dragging his lips down her neck.

“Mm, no. I think not, you devil.” She pushed him back, and moved away to resume dressing.

He sighed dramatically, and went to put on his own clothing.

“Where must you go, to meet this old man?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “The Harp in Hand. I assume you know it?”

Estinien nodded. Then he grinned. “Since you're dressed for it, care to take the roof road with me?”

She cocked her head and considered it. “I haven't the same training you do,” she pointed out. “So long as you're willing to tolerate me moving slower?”

“I would not have offered, little bird, if I minded taking it at your pace.”

“Then I would very much like to join you.”

He leaped into the window and held his hand out to her.

She clambered out the window with lithe grace, and once she stood on the stone sill, she put her hand in his.

He tugged her close and wrapped his arm around her. “Hang onto me.”

She gave him a curious look, but her arms went around his neck – the only way she could hold on, given his armor. He was, of course, wearing his armor – except for his helm. It was a habit he had no intention of breaking to go armed and armored.

Once he was sure she had hold of him securely, he smiled down at her, and without looking, he leaped.

The way her eyes widened, her little gasp of surprise, then the way her arms tightened on him, made him smile. They sailed upward, the sort of incredible leap that only a dragoon could perform – as near to flying as Estinien had ever been. He landed, and repeated the jump again and again, zig-zagging his way up until they had reached the roof of the mansion.

There, he paused, and let her feet touch the tiles.

She was breathing fast, and her eyes sparkled. “Well. That was an experience,” she said, shaking her hair and smoothing it a little. “Do all dragoons travel in such an abrupt manner, or just you?”

He laughed. “Any dragoon could have done that. It is not so difficult an ascent, after all.”

She eyed him. “And what, pray tell, do you consider difficult?”

He pointed to the towering spires of the Vault. “Up there.”

“You can't reach that just by jumping!”

“Oh? Perhaps one day I'll show you.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Or not.”

“You really are a devil,” she laughed. “Come now, we have somewhere to be. I'll follow your lead.”

He turned, and led her along the roof. The Fortemps mansion was relatively modest in its ornamentation, but that meant its roof was also designed in the old style – which meant sturdy and easy to climb about on, so that when inevitable repairs must be done, the workers didn't risk life and limb in the doing. Some of the other noble manors in the city were much more difficult to navigate.

He chose his path with care, taking a slightly different route. At first he kept the jumps few and short – but Nightbird had the makings of a true dragoon, leaping with grace and landing with delicate accuracy, even in the spike-heeled boots she wore. So he took her across riskier territory, and she followed him without a word of protest or concern. Still – he knew quite well where the boundary lay between mortal ability and the sorts of moves only a dragoon could accomplish. He took care not to push her that hard.

It pleased him how well she moved, but it pleased him even more how her eyes never left him for long, how she seemed to almost be able to read his moves before he finished them.

At length they reached their destination. Nightbird's boots touched the cobbles and all her attention left Estinien, to focus on the alley around them. He didn't miss the way her hand rested on the dagger on her hip. This was a much nicer part of the city, compared to the Brume; surely she didn't think she'd be assaulted in such a staid neighborhood as this? But he didn't comment.

She walked out into the street and around to the front of the tavern, and he followed

The Harp in Hand was a rather boring tavern, as such things went. They did not serve the stronger sorts of liquor; their custom was built around decent ale and solid, plain meals, the sort of thing that a working man could afford, and which would fill his belly at the end of a hard day. There was almost never a disturbance here; not once had the Temple Knights been called here to break up a fight, to Estinien's knowledge. The place was spacious, quiet, and altogether dull.

Nightbird walked in, and the proprietor greeted her warmly. The woman was an older Elezen, with the scars and build of a retired squire or knight. She eyed Estinien warily, but her greeting was polite, if not as warm. “Your friend's by the fire,” she told Nightbird, and the Miqote woman nodded once and told over a few coins.

Without a word she then walked over to the gigantic fireplace on the north end of the room.

At a table in the corner nearest the fire, a figure in dark green hunched over a mug as if trying to get warm. Nightbird sat down at the table, murmuring quietly, and the figure's head tilted up. A pair of eyes glinted up at him, a sheen of startling silver-gray, and then the head turned and a voice murmured back to Nightbird.

She looked at Estinien. “Well, come and sit,” she said, indicating the last chair.

The dragoon slid into the chair, his expression carefully still.

“Marius, this is Estinien.”

“The Azure Dragoon himself, eh? You're moving up in the world, Kevala.”

“Keep your humor in the gutter where it belongs, Marius. What have you to tell me?”

The figure sat up a bit. The hands around the mug – elegant hands, Estinien noted in passing – lifted up and pushed the hood back. The man revealed was middling in looks and age – the kind of face that you might see and forget five minutes later. His eyes seemed to be the same green color as his cloak, and Estinien wondered if he'd imagined that uncanny silver sheen.

“She's in trouble. She doesn't know it yet, but she is. That rather overconfident young man that has attached himself to her walks with traitors at his back.”

“Is he a danger to her?”

“No, he's as innocent as a new babe, somehow. Associating with Berylla as he does, that's nigh on a miracle.”

“Have you found out whether...?”

“Yes. And yes.”

Nightbird's eyes shut, and for a moment Estinien swore her lips were moving, another silent prayer. But then she opened her eyes again and her gaze was intense. “So what are you going to do?”

Marius spread his hands. “You know as well as I do that I can't do a damn thing but watch. And she's too far away for you to get there before it all goes down. Lolorito has laid his trap and baited it. Everything is in motion, the game in play. There's nothing to do but wait out the storm now.”

“Then why come to tell me this?” Nightbird demanded.

“Because she's coming to Ishgard.”

Estinien spoke up. “I've met Berylla. You're telling me she's going to just walk into Ishgard?”

“More or less. There will doubtless be some sort of paperwork involved.” Marius shrugged. “That matters little. I am not sure how long it will take before she fully arrives. I'm not sure who will be with her. I know what I hope and I know what I saw, and the two are not alike at all.”

He looked sad, and Estinien shook his head, lost. “You speak in circles,” he commented. “Of what do you speak, here? Are you saying that Berylla will come here and bring trouble with her?”

“She will come seeking sanctuary. Trouble? You of Ishgard already have plenty, do you not?”

“We do,” Estinien growled, “and that's why we don't let more trouble in the front gates.”

“A policy that will change before the year is out, I trow.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Estinien, calm down.” Nightbird laid a hand on his arm. “So you want me to keep watch over her, Marius?”

“Aye. How you choose to do so, I leave up to you.” Then his mouth quirked at her. “This would not be half as complicated if you'd just chosen to join with the Scions.”

“Fuck the Scions,” Nightbird said succinctly. “I do not choose to spend my energies on an endless round of defeating primals, when it would be far more efficient, intelligent, and _benevolent_ to actually work out treaties with the beast-men and abide by the terms of them.” Her eyes flashed. “I shall not be party to any further acts that deprive children of their parents. Even if they are not “real people” as some might say.”

Marius held up a hand. “I know, I know. Peace, my dear. I know.”

Nightbird's ears twitched, and her eyes softened. “Tell me truly, Marius. Is she...is she all right? You know what I mean.”

His eyes were sad. “No. She doesn't know a thing about – well. She doesn't know, let's leave it at that.”

Nightbird got a thoughtful look, and Marius frowned. “Don't try it. You're nowhere near as good at reviving memory as I am, young lady.”

Estinien's eyebrows knitted. “Is this simply a habit of bards, to speak in mysteries and riddles at all times?” he complained.

“I'll explain what I can, later,” Nightbird told him. He frowned anyway.

Marius looked at him, and there was an impression that the man was laughing at him, though his mouth never lifted. “I will give you a piece of advice, young dragoon. Trust Berylla Seahawk with your life. Nay, with your very soul. She will not betray that trust.”

Estinien leaned back, his frown becoming a scowl. Marius shrugged. “You'll see.”

Then he stood. “I must away,” he said. “Uldah awaits me and I've not much time to get there.”

Nightbird held up her hand in an entreating gesture. “Are you certain there's nothing that can be done?”

“All that you and I can do is wait until we are in a position to offer her succor. I know it's hard, but you will have your chance. Be patient.”

He put his hood back up, and walked out.

Nightbird leaned her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. Estinien leaned forward and touched her shoulder. He might not have understood half of what the two of them were talking about, but only an idiot would have missed how distressed it made the Miqote. Her ears were down, her tail curled into her lap, almost wrapping around herself, like a hug.

He remained silent. What could he say, after all?

A youngster trotted up with two mugs and plopped them down on the table. Nightbird took one, and drained it in one go. She set the mug down, and sat with her eyes shut for a minute.

“Talk to me, little bird.”

“Right,” she sighed. “I can only guess at some of this. There's trouble in Uldah. When I first came here, the only hint we had was that someone among the leaders of Eorzea was in danger. We didn't know who, exactly. So I was to stay here and gather information as I could.”

“Why send you and not someone who would fit in better?” Estinien's mouth twitched. “Most spies are meant to be unremarkable, no?”

“Who would believe it of me? A delicate, helpless little singer?” Her eyes glinted at him, reminding him of their spat. “Most folk don't know what I can do, and they don't need to, either.”

Estinien nodded. “Well enough.” He pushed the ale in front of him towards her. “And this trouble with Berylla is different?”

“She is tangled up in it. There are details I don't have. And...I know her.” She took the mug and drank again, though only half this time. “She won't know me.”

“Why?”

“I don't know if I can explain that, beyond saying that something's wrong with her memories. Only old ones – she's not having trouble with amnesia of that sort. She's as much in control of her mental faculties as you are.”

Estinien barked a laugh. “Thank you, I think.”

She smiled a little. “When you met her...what did you see?”

“A big red-headed Roe,” Estinien shrugged. “One with Haurchefant's eyes, and Aymeric's too, glued to her every move.”

Nightbird's mouth pursed. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, in your opinion?”

Estinien snorted. “Haurchefant is trouble on two legs, in some ways. I hope you don't have a problem with the notion of your friend tumbling with him.”

“I'm her friend, not her mother. So she is lovers with him?”

“As much as Haurchefant is lovers with anyone. He's a flighty sort.”

“And the Lord Commander?”

“Him, I can't speak about so much. Haurchefant won't shut up about a lover once he starts talking...” He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck, realizing how freely he was talking about his friend. “At any rate, Aymeric hasn't said anything. But he wouldn't.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

She made a face at him. “I have to get back,” she said. “Change clothes and make it to rehearsal. I still have a job to do.”

“As do I.”

She set her hand over his, and he met her eyes. “Things are going to get very, very strange soon,” she said quietly. “Might I hope that you will still see me, when you can?”

He swallowed. He should tell her no. Her posture, her eyes, said that she was prepared for him to say no. Maybe she even expected it. She had just told him that she was close to a person who was going to cause some kind of trouble for Ishgard. But there was only quiet, patient waiting – no anger, no fear, only the same acceptance she had shown him from the start.

He tried to imagine not seeing her ever again...and found he couldn't do it.

He turned his hand to gently hold her fingers, careful of his armor. “When I can, every time I can,” he promised quietly, and basked in her smile.


	8. Fallen Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird is going to have to move carefully.

“Ah, you are here today.”

Nightbird smiled as she turned. “Hello, Lord Haurchefant.”

The silver haired knight gave her one of his more charming smiles, eyes twinkling. “Now now, you can drop the honorific. We are friends, are we not?”

She smiled back. If she had not met Estinien, Haurchefant Greystone would be quite the temptation for her. He knew of their involvement, and kept his flirting within tolerable limits. She had heard plenty of tales of the man's exploits, but he seemed genuinely to like her, and that had a certain charm all its own.

“What brings you home today, my lord?” she asked him. The two of them were waiting in the short line to get some supper in the lower kitchen. Haurchefant was often seen here; being who he was – Count Fortemps' bastard son – he was rarely welcomed at the family table.

“I've come to speak to my father. There are some friends of mine who are in a bad spot.”

Her ears twitched. “Oh?”

His smile bent a little, one corner of his mouth hooking downward in a way she'd never seen from the eternally-cheerful Elezen. “Let us find a quiet corner, and I will tell you a bit more.”

They took one of the small corner tables – two footmen had been there, but they cheerfully cleared out for Haurchefant. The knight was very well liked among all the staff, and if rumor were to be believed, his father all but doted on him...the other, legitimate sons seemed to be most of the reason Haurchefant was barred from the upper floors of the house most of the time. Nightbird shook her head slightly, bringing her attention back to the conversation. “So, then,” she said, settling herself to listen while she ate, “Friends of yours? Are they particular friends?”

Again he gave her that odd smile. “You will have heard about the warrior, I expect. Berylla Seahawk is her name.”

Nightbird did her best not to drop her spoon into her stew. As it was, her ears went back. “Yes,” she managed. “Estinien mentioned her to me, not long ago.”

“She is...a most capable woman.”

Nightbird looked up as Haurchefant fell silent, and blinked to see a very slight flush on the man's cheeks. His eyes were far away, and the smile he wore reminded her of the smile Estinien would grace her with, when they lay twined together in their afterglow.

She cleared her throat a little, and he blinked, then smiled. “Forgive me, my mind wandered.”

“So, this capable warrior friend of yours finds herself in difficulty?” Nightbird kept her tone calm, even though worry spiked her belly and turned the stew tasteless in her mouth. Marius had warned her.

“She and two others. They are all that remains, as of this moment, of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.”

“ _What?_ ” Nightbird could only whisper the word in shock.

“From what they tell me, and what little I could corroborate – my southern sources are few – the Scions have been implicated in an...incident.” He shrugged slightly. “I have no reason to think that Berylla would lie to me, though I do admit there has been none of the hue and cry I would expect if...” He coughed. “Forgive me once more. The short version is that Berylla was personally accused of murdering the Sultana, and after some scuffle, the Scions fled. Of those that ran at Berylla's side...only she emerged to truly escape.”

“Oh, gods.” Nightbird set her spoon aside, giving up all pretense at eating. “I wasn't very fond of the Scions as an organization,” she murmured, “but I would never have wished such ill fortune on them.” She looked up at him. “Is she all right?”

His eyes were sad. “In a word, no.” Then his gaze sharpened a little. “You know her.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Nightbird shook her head. “It's not something to go into right now. Will it be enough for you to know that I am a friend to her, even if she does not quite know it?”

He quirked his eyebrows at her, and then nodded. “She needs all the friends she can get, right now,” he said. “They are sheltering with me at Dragonhead for the nonce, but they cannot stay there forever. Truly, I cannot hide them for much longer than two weeks...” He shook his head. “Already my men have caught skulkers sniffing around the Highlands.”

“But there is no public outcry?” Nightbird asked.

“Not that I know of, not so far. I am uncertain what to listen for, I confess. And to my dismay, Ser Aymeric was called away from the feast before the Scions were accused.”

“How convenient,” Nightbird muttered.

“Aye. The whole business reeks of intrigue and scheming.” Haurchefant's lips twisted. “They are safe where they are, but they might as well be imprisoned, for they cannot set foot outside the room in which they shelter. It is a comfortable room...but...”

Nightbird nodded. “So you wish to ask your father for help in hiding them?”

“I mean to ask him to adopt them.”

Her eyes went wide as she stared at him. He grinned slightly, pleased with himself.

“It is not unheard of, for the head of a High House to take in wards, for various reasons. Certainly the Scions all should by rights have been offered at least honorary knighthoods for their efforts at the Steps of Faith.” He twinkled at her again. “Even you should have had such honor.”

She waved her hand at him, scoffing. “Not something I need, thank you.”

“Capable as she is, at this moment, Berylla needs Father's protection.”

“And if he refuses you?” she asked him softly.

“Then I will take myself to Ser Aymeric and beg his help.” Haurchefant's jaw firmed. “I will not allow the light of hope to fade for lack of effort on my part to preserve her.”

Nightbird's ears twitched again, catching something in his voice; she eyed him and saw a glint in his eye that made her wonder...

But no. It was no place of hers to question the man and his emotional involvements.

“Well then,” she set her hand over his for a moment, “I wish you luck.”

“Will you help her as well?” he asked.

“I will watch over her, and I can promise no more than that,” she answered. “After all, I am but a humble singer of songs.”

“You are far more than that,” Haurchefant said, “if you've captured Estinien.”

“Captured?” Nightbird raised her eyebrows. “You make me sound like a hunter of men, Lord Haurchefant. I am most injured.” She kept her tone light.

He laughed, sounding more like himself. “I don't believe that, either. But I shan't interfere, nor even tease Estinien about the matter.” He stood up, and with a nod, left her sitting there.

She finished her food in a pensive state of mind, and wandered back to her room. But reading over her music and rehearsal notes, the sense of the words on the page eluded her, and after an hour or so, she gave up, and went to her window. It faced south and east, and she peered out towards the rolling clouds that filled the great chasm that separated Ishgard from most of Eorzea. From a higher vantage, she might have been able to see the cliff that Haurchefant had told her was known as Providence Point. From here...there was only cloud, and sky, and the towering spires and pillars of the city.

Was Berylla grieving, she wondered. Was she weeping, even now? Nightbird knew very little about the Scions, but she knew that Berylla had bonded closely with many of their highest members, had taken a place among them, had bled for them, gone through fire literal and figurative with them. _All_ gone, now? What sort of mischief could have so utterly destroyed such a proud order as theirs?

She wished, briefly, that she could go to Dragonhead and...the thought withered before she could finish it. Berylla would not know her. Her friends most certainly would not recognize her. She would be only a stranger to them, a potential enemy. There was no way she could comfort them, no aid she could offer. Her heart ached to think of how alone they must feel; hunted, hiding, hopeless.

With a deep breath, she turned towards the tiny shrine to Nophica that she kept on her dresser, there to light a stick of incense, and kneel for a long time, praying with more fervor than she had in many weeks. “Watch over them, keep them safe. And grant that soon I might be able to see my soul's sister once more.”

Less than a week later, Berylla had arrived at Fortemps Manor. Nightbird watched from a side hall as the steward led her and her friends to rooms in the family wing. Those rooms would be small – half the size of the generous room she herself used – but then again they were among those rooms meant for visiting relatives...

She regarded the little party of three. They all looked weary, worried, wan. The steward had hauled them all over the city this afternoon. Berylla's stride was firm, but there was a darkness in her eyes, a set to her shoulders...something Nightbird could not have pinned down for someone else to see. But she knew, the way she knew the color of her own eyes, she knew that the big Roe was sick at heart, grieving, on the edge of despair. Nightbird looked at the other two, to give herself time to swallow down the ache of seeing her friend in such pain.

The Lalafellin lass seemed harmless, making polite chatter, clearly uncomfortable with silence. She took the first room they came to, saying good night as the steward walked forward to the next door.

The other...a young, slim Elezen. Her ears pricked forward as she heard his voice, and recognized with a pang the cultured accents of Sharlayan. She noticed the way his white hair was secured, and then as he turned to look at Berylla, she caught the glint of silver at his ear.

He had to be a member of the upper echelons of Sharlayan. She furrowed her brow for a moment, then was distracted from speculating by the way Berylla hugged the boy – and the way he clung to her in turn. As if they had only each other.

It didn't matter who he was, then. He was important to Berylla. Nightbird would, therefore, watch over him as well.

Berylla let him go, and he set his hand on the door as the big Roe followed the steward to the next room over. Before he opened the door, however, he paused, and his head turned. Nightbird went still as piercing blue eyes looked in her direction, seeming for one moment to meet her own. This young man could see further into the millstone than most, it seemed. She smoothed her aether into something normal, and edged a bit further back into the shadows.

His eyes did not waver, though she was certain he did not truly see her. His voice was quiet, yet pitched to carry – clearly he was well trained in at least certain vocal tricks. But his words surprised her further still.

“Whoever you are. I know you are watching. We are not without resources, even here. Walk your path as you must, but know this: we would rather be friends here than enemies.”

He said no more, merely turned and went into his room. Berylla and the steward hadn't heard a word of that startling speech, seeing as the big Roe woman simply thanked the older man and went in her room without pause.

Nightbird considered. He had to be operating on the assumption that their enemies had spies in Ishgard – even in this house. She would have to make herself known, to him at least...ah.

With swift motions, she tugged a scrap of paper from her pouch and a pencil. With quick motions she sketched the sigil that G'raha Tia had taught her when she was younger. Taking the slip of paper, she walked quickly to the young man's door and tucked the paper into the crack between door and jamb, just above the door handle, before swiftly retreating into the servants' corridor and heading downstairs to her own room.

Behind her, the door opened almost instantly – but not fast enough for Alphinaud to catch more than a flash of skirt vanishing around the corner. The paper fluttered, catching his eye, and he caught it before it hit the floor. He regarded the symbol written there, and a slow, quiet smile appeared on his lips. “Well, then. Thaliak watches over us,” he whispered, and went back into his room.


	9. Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird was not expecting to meet the son of Lady Leveilleur...much less to offer her help to him.

Two days later, the house gossip was that the big woman with the axe had left with young Lord Artoirel, out to Falcon's Nest. The Lalafellin woman – whose name, it transpired, was Tataru – had made herself thoroughly agreeable, befriending all the upper staff. She was apparently determined to learn the names of all the lower servants. She had also developed a routine already, of spending most of her afternoons and evenings down at the Forgotten Knight, where her mission appeared to be sampling every spirit its owner stocked. She had even convinced one or two of the younger maids to go with her, and brought them back safely – thus earning her the affection of the housekeeper.

Only the white haired fellow – Master Alphinaud – remained in the house regularly. He seemed to spend almost all of his time closeted with Count Edmont or in the library. “A very bookish sort,” the maids reckoned him, and nothing more was said. Which told Nightbird that he truly was a well-born young man: he ignored the servants.

However, that made it simple enough to make a second contact. She merely arranged to be in the library one afternoon, when she knew he had been with Count Edmont all morning.

The main library in the manor was very large, and very much meant for impressing guests – not for the serious scholar. There was a ridiculous amount of open floor space, to show off the expensive marble flooring; a most inefficient layout, the better to create little nooks with two or three chairs and a small table displaying some form of art. The _real_ library was on the third floor below ground, and that was where she waited.

She came in, and settled herself at the desk to the right of the front part of the room. This library was packed with books: a space had been created at the front for desks and supplies and a great wooden book stand, on which stood the master index for the entire archives. A thousand years or more of books, scrolls, and assorted other matter resided inside this single stone chamber. Candles and lanterns were strictly forbidden: specially made magical lights provided enough illumination to suffice without risking the precious books. A special staff of three meticulous fellows saw to the safety and cleaning of the room at all hours. Nightbird imagined that of every other library in Ishgard, only the Astrologicum might have a more impressive hoard of knowledge. It looked the way she imagined the Great Library of Sharlayan must look – not that she had ever actually gotten to visit it.

Still, it was a nice quiet place to wait, and she even had a plausible excuse for being here. Among the archives, she had found a wealth of rather ancient church music, which she had taken to copying for her own collection; tunes no longer in use in the liturgy and therefore open to her use for arrangement.

So, when young Alphinaud came in, she was copying out a page of music that was likely three hundred years old, meticulously and slowly. He glanced at her, then shrugged a little and sat down at a desk across the room – clearly his usual spot, for there were things left there, neatly ordered, as there were not in the other carrels. He had clearly arranged things with the staff: another piece of evidence that he was from Sharlayan.

He arranged himself and opened a book that had been waiting for him, then opened another, slimmer volume. She set down her pen, sat up straight and stretched her arms over her head, knowing he would look over at her once more. When he did, she caught and held his gaze with her own.

He raised one white eyebrow at her. He had fine features, and she was certain he was quite aware of the fact. She revised her estimate of his age upward a bit. She turned in her chair, and gave him a small smile.

“I am glad to see you settling in comfortably, Master Alphinaud.”

His hand tensed on the book. “I fear you have the advantage of me, Miss...?”

“You may call me Miss Kevala,” she told him. “And I, like you, prefer to walk the path of friendship.”

His eyes narrowed for a moment as she lifted her hand, but he relaxed as she made the sign G'raha had taught her. “Ah,” he breathed, and his hands both rested on his knees. “So you were the one in the hall that night.”

“I was.”

“I must ask then, for whom do you work?”

“Count Fortemps,” she answered, amused. “As for watching – that, I do for myself, for I have a wish that Berylla – and her friends – be watched over.”

He blinked, and cocked his head to one side. “You are a friend of Berylla's then, and yet...I recall no one of your description from the Scion's files.”

“You wouldn't have found me there,” she chuckled. “I turned down the Scions' offer a year ago. I am an independent agent, if you like.”

He pursed his lips. “Very well. And may I ask what else you plan, besides watching?”

“I presume you have hopes of some specific action.”

He didn't like that at all, and she saw the hint of pink on his pale cheeks before he controlled himself. “I confess I am not accustomed to this much evasion from a _friend_ ,” he came back at her.

“One wonders, then, as to what manner of friends you are accustomed.”

“I –” He paused, and closed his mouth, fixing her with a curiously intense gaze for a moment. His eyes seemed to wander all over her, and yet there was nothing lascivious about it.

She watched him, fascinated in spite of the slight annoyance that had built in her – she was, after all, not threatening him. His continued questioning was missing the point.

“Let me make myself clear,” she told him. “I am in Ishgard at the behest of someone who knows Berylla, and knows of the Scions; my goals do not conflict with any of yours. My mission here is not solely to watch over her, but within reason, I can offer some limited aid to you and Miss Tataru in your endeavors. For you are searching for information, are you not?”

“You have spoken with Tataru?”

“She has spoken with many, many people already. Word gets around, as they say.”

“And what of Berylla?”

She chose her words with care. “The help I can offer to her needs must remain oblique for now. There are reasons for it – good ones, Master Alphinaud. Reasons that will preserve her well being. But the details are not for you to know, until such time as Berylla chooses to talk of it.”

“This is a mystery most displeasing,” he complained, crossing his arms.

“Trust me, boy, I am not pleased either, but my superior has said this must be so.”

He went stiff at her tone and she took a long breath, holding up her hand, palm toward him. When she had calmed, she spoke again.

“My apologies. This situation is difficult for me in its own way. Please believe that I have only Berylla's well being in mind. Please accept what help I may offer, and do not ask me for the impossible.”

She let her eyes fall away from his, and a glint of silver at his throat caught her attention.

She swallowed. She recognized the crest worked into the ornamentation at the neck of his tunic. She had never thought to see the Leveilleur house sigil again. Her eyes went back to his face, and she cursed to herself. How had she missed the fact that the scion of House Leveilleur was in Eorzea?

He was watching her, brow furrowed as he caught her look of shock. “What is the matter, Miss Kevala?”

“You don't look anything like your mother.” The words were out before she could stop herself.

His eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

She set her fingers to her temples. “Gods, I...a moment. Please.” She shut her eyes, and tried to force the memories away.

*

She had been younger in more than years then. Before the Calamity. The memory was as sharp as ever. She had seen twelve winters and escaped from what surely had been one of the seven hells. For a week she had been tested in knowledge, in verse, in song. The examiners had meticulously plucked every ounce of knowledge from her mind, every scrap of ambition from her heart, and held them up to merciless scrutiny. But at no time did they lay a hand on her, and so she had withstood it all, never once breaking down as some of the other children had done.

The sun streamed into the room, the sea wind carrying the luscious scent of orange blossoms and a hint of salt. She stood straight, her hands behind her back, in her plain linen tunic and skirt, alone before the semi-circle of white-robed men and women. Seven all told. Six judges, and seated slightly outside their arc, the imposing woman with the violet eyes, her white robes sparkling with silver. Her high collar featured a curiously elaborate pattern that held Nightbird's attention as she waited out the silence of the six.

“Your performance has been evaluated,” the oldest said at last. “You do not meet our standard. There is no place at the Sharlayan Conservatory for you, young lady.”

Her eyes snapped to his face, but even as she opened her mouth, he held up his hand. She pressed her lips closed and her hands clenched hard, behind her. Long practice kept the tears inside, letting no hint of her anguish show on the surface.

“However. Your talent cannot be denied. We have been made aware of the...” his thin lips twisted with distaste, “...unfortunate circumstances under which you labor. Our school does not offer remedial teaching, but there is another Conservatory.”

He turned his head then, the strands of crystals woven into his complicated hairstyle chiming. “Lady Leveilleur, if you would?”

The woman in silver and white stood. Her gaze pinned Nightbird to the spot. “Acting as liaison for this exchange, I have been in contact with the masters of the Gridanian Conservatory of Music,” she said. Her voice was cold, and her eyes held neither hostility nor kindness. She was a glacier made flesh, and Nightbird shivered under that remote visage. “You have been accepted as a student there. Arrangements have been made. You will leave in three days' time.”

She closed her pale lips, and after a moment, Nightbird remembered herself, and curtsied as low as she could. “Th-thank you,” she murmured.

She glanced up through her lashes, without rising, and watched as the woman nodded once, a distant approval, before turning on her heel and gliding out of the room.

The rest of the adults stood, and Nightbird straightened, clasping her hands in front of her uncertainly. The judge who had spoken to her approached her as the others filed out. He offered her his hand, and a kind smile made all his wrinkles stand out. She let him take her hand in his, and looked up at him, questions crowding her eyes while her mouth stayed tightly closed.

“It must seem an unkindness,” the old man said. “After all you have endured, to be turned away here, but I implore you, young one, do not despair. We cannot allow you to stay with us, but we have done all within our power to help you.”

She nodded. She didn't understand at all, but she nodded, and let the kind old man lead her back to the hostel where she was permitted to sleep. She remained quiet as evening came, as all the children at the hostel were fed, as they all filed to their tiny rooms for rest. Only when she lay in the narrow cot did she let the tears come. And when she had cried herself to sleep, her dreams were full of a cold voice and everywhere, the chime of crystal and silver, and the merciless patterns of a Sharlayan noblewoman's collar.

*

“Miss Kevala, are you quite all right?”

She blinked rapidly and shook her head. “I am sorry –”

A hand was on her shoulder, and she realized that Alphinaud had gotten up and crossed the room while she was woolgathering. She broke off her apology and met his eyes, astonished to see genuine concern there.

“You fell completely silent for five minutes,” he told her.

She ducked her head to hide her eyes from him. “That has not happened...in a very long time. Forgive me for startling you.”

He let go of her, but he did not move away. He did not speak, yet every line of him was a question. Nightbird sighed.

“It seems I must needs explain myself.”

“I would appreciate it greatly.”

“You might as well sit down again. This is not a brief tale, though I will make it as short as I can.”

He sank into the chair nearest to her, his posture alert. She didn't look at his face as she began to speak.

“Prior to the Calamity, I spent a short time in Sharlayan, as an applicant for a place at the Conservatory there.” She swallowed. “I had quite unusual circumstances, but even allowing for them, I did not pass the examinations to be accepted. Your mother...” She cleared her throat. “Lady Leveilleur, that is, was responsible for arranging an alternative for me. Namely, being sent to the Gridanian Conservatory.”

His mouth formed a small “O” of understanding.

“I was not in her presence long,” Nightbird said quietly, “but she left a very...vivid...impression. The realization of just who your family is was...unexpected.”

He gazed at her. “I remember you, now.”

Her eyes flew to his. “What – but how?”

He shrugged. “It is not a very strong memory. I saw you for all of a minute, as Mother was escorting you to the aetheryte.”

She blinked. “I recall two children, yes.”

“My twin sister and I.”

“May I say that I hope she is safe back home?”

“She is not back home,” and he chuckled slightly, “but to the best of my knowledge, she is safe.”

“I must apologize once more,” Nightbird began, but he held up his hand.

“Both of us have reasons to be extremely cautious. There is no need for apologies.” Then he held his hand out to her. “I believe I shall accept your help, Miss Kevala. You are clearly in connection of quite a different set of contacts than I.”

“You accept my help on faith, then?”

He lifted his chin. “Just now,” he said quietly, “All I have in this world is faith.”

“And your friends,” she answered. Then she took his hand, and shook it once. “And you may count me among them, even though I shall be somewhat at a distance.”

He smiled, a charming, sweet smile, and nodded.

“Let us make our arrangements, then.”


	10. Prosecution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird told Alphinaud it was a bad idea.

In the weeks that followed, Nightbird heard from young Alphinaud often. They would converse quietly in the library, sometimes, but most often he would simply leave a note for her, tucked among the music at her usual desk.

A great deal of the information he was specifically seeking from her tended towards the doings of the poorer classes. He was well connected on his own, and Tataru appeared to have her finger on the very pulse of Ishgard as well as a very wide ranging network of friends in the other city-states – among the middle class folk, craftsmen and the like. Nightbird's contacts lay in some of those same social strata – but she also had as many friends in low places as high.

It did not surprise her that the two of them sought as much information as possible regarding their missing friends. Nor did she blame the young man for doing what he could to discover the public attitude toward the Scions. So far there was no public outcry – or even a news article mentioning the banquet at all. Nightbird had sent a letter to Marius asking for details, but it also did not surprise her that the man had yet to answer.

What did surprise her was Alphinaud's apparent disregard for Ishgardian suspicions and prejudices. It was not possible he did not know about the tensions between the faithful and the heretics who spoke to dragons rather than attacking them. Yet he and Tataru both freely spoke to those suspected of associating with heretics.

That in and of itself presented only social danger – and since he seemed to have an interest in the social whirl of Ishgardian nobility, it might have been no problem at all.

But Tataru also spoke with men who were believed by some nobles to actually be heretics...and that carried far more danger.

On the other hand...from Estinien she heard nothing at all.

She told herself that there had been no promises between them, not really. “When I can” was hardly the same as agreeing on a specific time or day. He was working, no doubt, just as she was working. She remained in the city instead of taking outside jobs, and attended her rehearsals, practiced her art, and studied what she could. There were no great masters of vocal technique in Ishgard, but there was a quite excellent choir...if only she could obtain permission to contact their master.

Nightbird stepped out into the hall after rehearsal only to be immediately accosted by a page. The youngster earnestly begged her to hurry to the main sitting room, as Lord Haurchefant had requested her presence most insistently.

She didn't even stop by her room to drop off the satchel of music. Haurchefant had never once called for her – if he wanted to simply chat, he'd just lie in wait for her in the lower kitchen, or send around a note. This was something much different. For a moment, ice threaded her spine.

But no, if there had been any serious trouble, then she would have been summoned directly out of the rehearsal. Count Edmont had not sent for her, Haurchefant had. There was no reason to panic.

She arrived at the sitting room, and she could hear voices a good ten feet before she could put her hand on the door.

“Lord Haurchefant, I assure you, I know the risks and I have taken steps to minimize those risks. I appreciate your concern, but it is misplaced – why, I have been gathering information from the locals almost since the day we arrived!”

Nightbird paused, her hand stretched out but not yet touching the door handle. That was Alphinaud's voice.

“Yes, but none of the folk you've talked to so far were suspected heretics.” Haurchefant sounded tense. “Surely you have not forgotten the incident at Dragonhead? There are far more inquisitors here and their vigil is relentless. Have a care, Master Alphinaud. I should not like to return from Cloudtop only to find that you have been detained. The inquisitors in the city have far more...inventive methods of putting one to the question.”

Nightbird shuddered. She knew exactly what Haurchefant meant – she had witnessed an execution once in her time here and she hoped never to see another. The accused had been half dead before they ever brought him to the headsman. She knew the signs of torture, too well. To think of Alphinaud in the hands of the inquisitors...

She stepped into the room.

“Ah, Nightbird, I trust my summons did not inconvenience you?”

“It most certainly did not, my lord. Rehearsal had concluded for today.” She gave him a very slight bow, for form's sake mostly, and nodded to Alphinaud, who gave her a smile. “How may I serve?”

He waved his hand. “First by dispensing with the niceties. I see you and Master Alphinaud have met?” He quirked one silver eyebrow at her, and her ear twitched at the way he glanced between them.

“I have aided Master Alphinaud in some of his inquiries, yes,” she answered, keeping her tone calm. “Is your summons in regards to those inquiries?”

“Not in the main – but since I have you here, perhaps you can add insight to the situation. Our young friend here craves speech with some of the blacker birds down in the Brume.”

The phrase made her ears rotate back then forward, and her tail lashed once. “Not the wisest craving to indulge, especially not with recent tensions,” she observed as she looked over at Alphinaud.

The slim young man lifted his chin. “I am well aware that these persons are not to be trusted, but the information I hope to gain of them is more than worth the potential risk.”

“At the risk of repeating what you may already have heard,” Nightbird said slowly, “it isn't the Blackbirds you need worry about. It's who watches them. They are known to sympathize with heretics, and...”

“But I am not Ishgardian and I do not profess to Halone, therefore by definition I cannot be a heretic.” Alphinaud's words were loaded with stubbornness that she had never heard from him before. He was always self-assured, but this was arrogance. He truly believed he was untouchable, and he was _going_ to follow through with whatever plans he had made.

Trying to persuade him away from his plan was a waste of breath. Her ears flattened.

“You have determined your course then,” she said, and then turned away from him. “Lord Haurchefant, pray tell me the other reason you summoned me here.”

She saw out of the corner of her eye how Alphinaud's cheeks colored, but the young Elezen didn't speak. Haurchefant sighed, and waved a hand at him. “You might as well go along, then, Master Alphinaud. I sincerely hope that your meeting ends very quietly.”

Alphinaud's bow to the older man was almost perfunctory, and he quickly left the room.

Haurchefant shook his head and then turned his attention to Nightbird.

“I asked you here because I can't be in two places at once. I've a very sensitive message that needs to be passed to Ser Aymeric; however, I've just been sent to Cloudtop to retrieve my feckless little brother, and also our red-headed friend.”

Nightbird blinked. “I thought Berylla was still in Falcon's Nest.”

Haurchefant made a face that seemed equal parts fond and annoyed – a face she had come to associate with Emmanellain. The youngest son of House Fortemps was...energetic. In less kind terms, he was exactly the sort of fool that tried Nightbird's patience to its limits. But he was far preferable to certain other young lords of the city, for unlike Tibernus, Emmanellain was never cruel. Thoughtless, vain, presumptuous, insensitive – but never _cruel_.

“Em made off with her less than an hour after Artoirel brought her home. That was almost a week ago. Father wants both of them back here, but when I contacted the camp – well, there's been a spot of trouble.”

He flapped his hand at her a little even as her eyes widened. “Your friend is fine, it's just Em as usual. He managed to run afoul of the local beast tribe, this time, and wants rescuing. I fully expect to find that Berylla has already pulled my brother's fat out of the fire by the time I arrive. But I must leave immediately – and this letter must still reach Aymeric without anyone the wiser of that fact, before midnight.”

“And _I_ am to deliver this letter?” Nightbird asked. “But Haurchefant, I have no way to just walk in and talk to the Lord Commander.”

“You'll go to his house, of course.”

She just regarded him, for a long moment, until he laughed quietly. “I have time to get you there and introduce you to Jarilant, the steward. After that I'll have to scramble to meet my men and leave on the airship.”

“And you cannot simply send a page to the man's house?”

“Pages gossip,” Haurchefant said promptly. “Any ordinary messenger might be stopped on their way. I've delivered this kind of thing in this manner for a few years now – no one pays mind to a social visit from a bastard lordling, after all.” The corner of his mouth turned down. “Nor to the wanderings of a mere musician.”

The old pain under his words made her step forward and set one hand on his. “The nobles of Ishgard are blind if they think you a lesser man than any of them,” she said quietly. “And I will deliver this letter for you. You're right. Their blindness can be turned to serve a greater purpose.”

He smiled.

She arrived at the library, and sat down to work on her copying while she waited. But an hour passed, then another, and there was no sign of Alphinaud. The young man was impeccably punctual. Something, therefore, was wrong.

She got up and left the library, and went looking for the best source of information in the house: Penelope Manchette, the head cook for the entire manor.

At this hour, Penelope was engaged in the relatively easy task of overseeing the preparation of vegetables for dinner, while simultaneously tending the enormous pot of stew that fed the kitchen staff throughout the day.

The main kitchen was much, much bigger than the kitchen on the fourth floor; but very few tables were here for eating. When the Count held a large dinner party, this was where all preparations for that meal were made. Nightbird had seen enormous cakes built here, and more than once, whole oxen roasting. Truly an impressive place, and its mistress was no less so, for all her small stature.

Penelope was quite the shortest Elezen Nightbird had ever met. Shorter even than young Honoroit. No one ever brought it up more than once. There were many tales of young or foolish servants, new to the manor, who'd commented on her height. Such foolishness was met with immediate, and devastating, mockery. Penelope was immensely talented in her craft; her wit was as viciously sharp as her favorite knife, and just as frequently used. Woe betide the servant who faltered in their tasks or worse, shirked their work. The term “idiot sandwich” was a running joke among the lower staff.

However, she could also be very sweet, if one happened to know how much she liked a certain specific sweet...

“Oh! Nightbird, we haven't seen you in ages!”

“Hello, Penelope.” Nightbird smiled. She held up the small green cloth bag. “I brought you something.”

“Oh, you angel,” and just like that Penelope was all but cooing as she handed over her ladle to the sous chef beside her, hopped down from her step-stool, and stepped over to where Nightbird stood, out of the way of the main working space.

Nightbird's ears wiggled a little, and she smiled. “They said that next week, they will start putting out the Starlight candies.”

“Oh, I must remember to send m'lord Count a note about that, thank you Nightbird.” Penelope tugged open the bag and plucked one candy out, before closing the bag back up and tucking it into her pocket. Then she popped the bright red candy into her mouth, looking blissful. “Ah. It's so nice of you to bring me these. I declare there is nothing quite like a good cinnamon burn.”

Nightbird chuckled. She had no idea how the diminutive Elezen could handle the incredibly strong cinnamon candies – strong enough that some folks couldn't keep them in their mouths for more than a few seconds. Strong enough to make the eyes water. But for Penelope it might have been only a rose pastille.

Penelope looked up at the bard. “So then, what is it you'd like to talk about?”

“That young man the Count recently accepted as a ward. Has he taken sick? I had got used to seeing him in the library, but he didn't come today.”

“He's a touch young for you, isn't he?”

“ _Penelope!_ ”

The Elezen laughed. “Oh, I'm only having fun with you, dearie. He was home most of the morning, as far as I know. Left to walk Miss Tataru to the Knight, as usual.”

“And didn't come back?” Nightbird frowned a little. “Well. I've nothing else to do for today, I think I'll go get an ale and see what the two of them have gotten up to.”

“Be careful,” Penelope told her, and waved her fingers in farewell before returning to her work.

The Forgotten Knight was in an uproar.

Nightbird didn't have to ask a thing. Nearly every one of the regulars was talking about the incident – some shouting, others muttering nervously. Within moments she had grasped the shape of the trouble, and her blood ran cold.

A knight of the Heavens' Ward had shown up two hours ago, just after Tataru and Alphinaud had arrived. He had brought guards with him – men not of the Temple Knights. He had declared, at the top of his lungs, that Tataru and Alphinaud were accused of fomenting heresy, and arrested the both of them on the spot.

Someone had to tell the Count. She could make it back to the manor in half the time she'd taken getting here, if she used side lanes and a few alleyways – she didn't even finish the thought before she was out the door and running.

She was half way back to the manor when Estinien stopped her.

He leaped down as if from the clouds – probably having vaulted over a roof-tree, she thought to herself – and landed in the middle of the narrow side lane, forcing her to come to a halt.

She just stared at him for a moment, her mind juggling questions and plans alike. She needed to find out what could be done for the two innocents, and she might have to contemplate breaking them out of their incarceration – though she hoped it would not come to that. She would never forgive herself if she let Berylla's friends come to harm while she was away from the city.

And yet her eyes greedily took him in, even encased in that so-prickly armor.

“Your tail isn't on fire,” Estinien observed, crossing his arms. “What's the trouble?”

“I need to get back to House Fortemps and speak with the Count,” she answered. “Two of his wards are in trouble.”

She couldn't see his face, of course. That damned helm. All she got was a grunt. “What sort of trouble could they get themselves into? They are hardly more than whelps.”

Her brows came down, her ears went flat, and her tail lashed. “Not accurate, and not the point, dragoon.” Her tone was terse. “Now let me by, if you please.”

“What, are they to be put to the question in the Vault?” His tone was mocking.

“It's highly likely that they will be,” Nightbird snapped, “if you keep delaying me!”

She shoved past him, almost catching her cloak on the spiky armor, and ran on down the lane, faster now. She had not realized until he said it that the Holy See had a habit of _torturing_ its prisoners.

A half dozen curses boiled in the back of her throat, but she saved her breath for running.

Behind her, she heard Estinien's footsteps – perhaps a dozen strides – and then silence. She knew he'd taken to the roofs. Maybe he would beat her to the manor – it would be fine with her if he did.

She got inside the manor and headed for the sitting room, where Count Edmont generally could be found if he was not in his office. She was still in the halls when she heard Berylla shout.

_“WHAT?!”_

Well, _someone_ had beat her here, and brought the message to the Count. Berylla must have been home for less than an hour. Had she been walking into the manor as Nightbird had been heading out?

She paused in the hall and listened. Terse voices, and then – a door opening, and quick steps – the front door opening and closing with a force just short of slamming.

She walked toward the sitting room, her steps slow. She wasn't certain that she needed to say or do anything, now, and yet...

Count Edmont stepped out into the hall, his cane clicking on the marble floor. He glanced over and saw her, and waved his free hand. “Ah. Miss Kevala. Did you need something?”

“I had thought to bring you word about Master Alphinaud,” she said, “but I see that bad news travels swiftly.”

“The thought is nonetheless appreciated.” The older man bowed slightly. “Would you object to carrying a message to the Vault for me? I could send a servant, but I suspect Master Alphinaud would appreciate seeing a friendly face.”

“I do not mind at all, but will they let me inside such a place?” She gestured to her ears.

“With my token in hand, they shall,” he assured her. “Come. I shan't take but a moment to prepare what you need.”

He walked down the halls until they reached his office, a room Nightbird had only been in once before when negotiating and signing her contract with the nobleman. It was a pleasant space – cozy and informal – and smelled faintly of fine tobacco, but not of smoke. A narrow glass door led to a tiny balcony with a single chair. She wondered if the count took his pipe outside to smoke it.

He sat at the desk and swiftly wrote out a short note – just a few lines. “Haurchefant will likely pass you on your way,” he said with a small chuckle, “though on your way in or out, I could not say. He knows the law and customs of Ishgard as well as I do, and there is only one choice open to our impulsive warrior if she wishes to rescue Master Alphinaud and Miss Tataru.”

“Might I ask...?”

“Trial by combat, of course,” he answered, as he blew across the ink to dry it and folded the note. He sealed the note with wax, and fished in a drawer for a moment. “Ah, there it is.” Then, he stood.

“This,” he handed her a metal square, “identifies you as my hand in this matter. You may pass freely anywhere that I might walk.” His eyes crinkled. “Try not to abuse it before you return to me.”

Nightbird's laugh was quiet. “I shall do my best.”

The Count set the note in her other hand. “Your presence – and therefore my implied scrutiny – should afford the two of them some measure of protection in the form of delay. The note shall also help.” He patted her hand once and nodded. “Present yourself at the lower door on the eastern wall of the Vault. Return here when you are finished. I will ask for a report, so keep your eyes and ears open, do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.” Nightbird bowed, and left.

Her steps were quick as she headed back out into the streets. The sun was lowering in the sky by now; it might well be dark before she could return to the manor. But any worry of coming back in the twilight was drowned out by her concern for the two Scions.

She arrived at the Vault, located the door the Count had specified, and instantly had to show the square of metal that the Count had given her. The lancer peered at it suspiciously for a moment, then with a grunt, handed it back to her and opened the door.

She went inside, and the door shut behind her with a heavy thud.

Immediately, she felt the fur on her tail standing up and her ears flattened. There had been street noise outside – several fellows having some sort of lively argument – and now she could not hear them at all. She could hear nothing. The air was still; the dim hall felt like a cave sealed away from the sun.

She lifted her chin and strode down the hallway to the only door she could see.

The door led into a room with a desk; no one sat there. Behind the desk, she saw an archway blocked by a very stout looking gate of iron straps all hammered together in a basket-like pattern. She paused at the threshold, uncertain, glancing around.

A clanking footstep resounded from behind the gate, and then an armored man came into view. He saw her, and turned his head, speaking quietly to someone behind him, who then came forward.

The person put a key into the gate, and turned it; with a clang the lock opened. The gate swung forward with a quiet creak of hinges and the two men stepped out into the room, shutting the gate immediately. Nightbird heard the lock re-engage the moment the door shut.

She looked at the two men before her, even as they stared at her, clearly wishing to intimidate her.

The shorter man wore dark leathers and seemed a bit older, if the iron-gray hair was any indication; his gaze on her was one of professional suspicion, the same sort of expression she had seen in any number of jailers over the years.

The other – he towered over her, taller even than Estinien. His armor was highly polished and pure white – in the sun he might have blinded her. Touches of color showed in various spots, and his weapon was chased with gold; obviously his gear was of extremely high quality. A high ranking knight, but not one of the order commanded by Ser Aymeric.

His skin was dusky, and his hair like ripened wheat, a lush gold that he must have been quite vain of, because he tossed his head as if to display the silky locks. His features were a giveaway – his House must be Dzemael, given the strong resemblance to the Lord of that house and to that dratted pup, Tibernus. His eyes roamed over her, aggressive and suggestive at the same time, and his smile was slow and smoldering.

She wanted to scratch that smile off his face. He had all of the swagger Tibernus displayed, but she could sense that he had power to back up that swagger, unlike his cousin.

“What have we here?” the tall one said. “A morsel, sent to comfort us in our lonely watches?”

Her tail stiffened and her ears clamped to her head, but she kept her voice quiet and civil.

“I am a messenger sent by Count Fortemps. He bids me bear a letter to Master Alphinaud Leveilleur at once.”

The jailer scoffed. “The likes of you acting as a messenger? Like as not you're the boy's nanny.”

Silently, she held up the metal square. It picked up the lantern light oddly, and gleamed suddenly with the colors of House Fortemps.

The jailer muttered , and the knight laughed, a most unpleasant, grating laugh. “She speaks truth. Perhaps the old man is sending comfort and message in one go.”

Nightbird was very glad of the hue of her skin. These men could not read her, could not see the flush of rage, did not understand the hints of her tail and her ears.

“Ser Grinnaux,” the jailer eyed the man cautiously, “I have no authority to prevent such a messenger...”

“Aye, aye,” the knight waved one hand, dismissively. “I'll not tarry here, much as I might wish to admire the scenery.”

Nightbird lowered her eyes and moved aside, as if no more than a demure maiden; as if not seething with rage at the leer the knight aimed at her.

He walked past, deliberately too close, brushing against her slightly. She did not respond, and he sauntered away down the hallway.

The jailer cleared his throat. “Apologies,” he said reluctantly. “Your message is for whom, miss?”

“Leveilleur,” she said, looking up. She continued to keep her voice under strict control, despite her irritation. This man was a clod, making her repeat herself. She suspected he would try to take the note from her if she was not careful. “My lord Count was most exact in his instructions,” she added. “I must speak _personally_ with him.”

Sure enough, the jailer's mouth turned down. “Aye,” he said shortly, and turned to the gate. “This way then, miss.”

He unlocked the gate and opened it, not holding it for Nightbird.

She slipped through before the gate slammed shut in her face, and kept right on the man's heels as he led her down a corridor that was lit quite well, and meticulously clean. Doors lined each wall, placed close together, and very obviously locked from the outside. Cells. She caught a harsh smell, lye or bleach perhaps. But under it....her tail could not fluff any more, but it tried.

Her aether sense picked up the echoes of pain just as her nose picked up the faint scent of blood. Horrible things had happened here. Recently.

She heard Tataru crying before the jailer halted at a door and lifted an iron ring hung with keys from his belt.

“Fifteen minutes, miss.” He unlocked the door and this time, held it.

Nightbird nodded once and stepped inside, trying not to shiver when the door closed.

The two Scions sat on the narrow benches bolted to either side of the cell. A lantern hung on the wall where a window might have been once – if the bricked up square in the masonry was any indication. Tataru had crammed herself against the corner, and was weeping very softly. As the door opened, they both looked up, expressions wary.

Alphinaud's eyes lit up when he saw her. “Ah, Miss Kevala! I am most relieved to see you – ”

She cut him off. “Please, we haven't much time.” She handed the note to him. “The Count is most concerned, but there are few options in this situation. First I must ask – are you both well?”

Tataru sniffled a little, but nodded, as did the young Elezen.

“Ser Grinnaux was just here,” Alphinaud's voice was tight with anger. “He was full of implied threats, but he did not lay a finger on either of us.”

Nightbird's eyes flashed as she considered what sort of threats a man like that would hint at. But she held her peace, and only nodded. “I am given to understand that a trial can be arranged this very day.” The Count had not said anything of the sort – but Nightbird knew Haurchefant and she knew Berylla, and the _both_ of them would insist on immediately freeing their friends. She wondered how close Berylla was to simply storming the Tribunal and taking her friends back by force...

Alphinaud seemed to divine her thought somewhat, and his brow furrowed. “Is Berylla...?”

“She is in the city, she knows, and if I am not mistaken she is speaking to someone in authority at this moment.” Nightbird thought. “Probably Ser Aymeric.”

“Did you speak with her?”

“Of course not. However, I did _hear_ her. I think the entire manor heard her.”

The tips of his ears went pink, but he laughed weakly. “She does have an impressive bellow when she is angry.”

“Have you spoken to Lord Haurchefant – ” she began, when in the corridor she heard the jailer utter a low curse, then a louder, “M'lord Graystone, how may I – oh.”

She moved, adroitly, before the door popped open and Haurchefant stepped inside. His expression was black with outrage – until he slammed the door shut behind him.

Then – like a summer squall clearing – he was smiling as usual.

“My friends. Full glad I am, to see you unharmed.” He glanced at Nightbird. “I see my father sent reinforcements.”

“He told me that I might pass you on my way,” Nightbird smiled with amusement.

“Lord Haurchefant,” Alphinaud asked, “how is Berylla taking all this? She isn't going to do anything ill-advised, I hope?”

“No, Aymeric and I managed to talk her down.” Haurchefant grinned. “Though it was a near thing.”

Tataru glanced around at all of them, and asked in a wavering voice, “When must we stand trial? And what sort of trial is it, anyway?”

“Trial by combat,” Haurchefant answered promptly, then held up his hands in a soothing gesture before Tataru could react. “Do not fear. You are permitted to name a champion, Miss Tataru, as unlike Alphinaud, you are not versed in combat.”

“Oh.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Are you...?”

“No,” and his grin was one of reassurance. “Berylla will be here, ready to answer your call.”

“As she always has been,” Alphinaud's voice was full of relief and a hint of something else.

Nightbird's ears twitched, her musician's instinct picking up on that subtle note of suppressed emotion.

“I have delivered the note the Count wished to send,” she said quietly. “Is there anything else?”

“Stay but a moment,” Haurchefant told her, “and I shall see you out of this place.”

“Protecting me?” She raised one eyebrow.

“There is not much protection I could offer you from the Heavens' Ward should they truly desire to harm you,” he answered, his grin fading. “But my presence will at least curb any ideas of – _friendly_ conversation.”

She nodded. “I thank you, then.”

He turned back to Alphinaud. “My father will have likely given you a hint – if not the precise wording you must use. Trials such as this are not common, and you must do your best to appear innocent – which you are – and not frightened.”

Alphinaud's mouth tightened. “I understand.” Then he glanced up at the silver knight in concern. “What sort of opponent are we facing, Lord Haurchefant? I find I would be easier in this if I had some inkling as to preparation.”

“You will be facing two of the knights of the Heavens' Ward,” Haurchefant told him. “Ser Grinnaux for certain, and whoever he selects as his second. After I have escorted Nightbird out, I will make the arrangements necessary. I expect that you will be brought into the Tribunal Chamber within two hours.” He smiled again. “Probably less. Ser Grinnaux is not known for his patience.”

Then, he sketched a bow to first Tataru, then Alphinaud. “The sooner I go, the sooner you'll be back at the manor.”

He turned to open the door, and Nightbird stepped forward to follow him. Alphinaud set his hand on her arm, and she patted it gently. “You'll be fine,” she told him.

“Thank you for looking out for us.”

“I'll be present at the trial, if they'll let me,” she promised.

He gave her a small smile, and then she stepped out into the corridor with Haurchefant.

Forty-five minutes had passed since they stepped out of the Vault's dungeon. Most of that time had been spent waiting for the Chamber to be prepared, from what Nightbird could tell. Ser Aymeric and Lord Haurchefant stood calmly, so she had to assume that this was normal.

The gallery was perhaps two-thirds full. She saw Count Edmont, very near the front, leaning on his cane. Aymeric and Haurchefant had taken up spots also near the front, but more to the right hand side of the gallery's arc. Nightbird, on the other hand, had placed herself near the back wall. There were no benches, merely four stone tiers wide enough to permit even the most elaborate gown room to move.

Beyond the gallery was a large pit of some sort, with several great chains running down the walls into darkness. On the other side of that pit, a space that would not have been out of place in most any magistrate's court – a pair of tables to each side, and in the center, an edifice of carved wood that held three men in inquisitor's robes, but with the addition of some unusually tall head-wear.

Clearly, rank and standing among the Church of Halone was indicated by the height of one's hat.

Quite a crowd of notables had gathered – including a few faces she had not seen for some time. Lord Francel stood beside his father and one of his brothers, on the left hand arc. He spied her, and gave her a small wave of his fingers, which she returned with a smile. Her smile widened as she saw his eyes drift to Haurchefant. Color rose in the young lord's cheeks, and he turned back to face the front of the Chamber. She wanted to shake her head in amusement. Few indeed were the hearts that fluttered because of the silver knight. Or perhaps she should say there were few beds he had not visited.

Below, a door on the left opened, and two knights emerged. Seeing Ser Grinnaux, she understood that the too-white armor was in fact the uniform of the Heavens' Ward. Haurchefant had explained to her exactly what the Ward were. She shivered a little at the cold expression of the second knight. No noble soul, there: he had the eyes of a killer.

Someone eased in beside her, and she glanced over, then looked again.

“Estinien.”

“Aye.”

Her lips twitched. Just that? Just “aye”? Not a word else in greeting? Infuriating man.

“Calm your tail,” he muttered. “Once this farce is over, I would speak with you.”

She felt her face warming, and grasped her tail in one hand. From the right hand side, Alphinaud and Tataru came out – the young Elezen striding with fully as much arrogance as the knights had shown. The poor Lalafellin woman looked like she might faint from nerves.

“Farce?” she wondered. “Do you think their chances good, then?”

“I think the Warrior of Light is going to wipe the floor with their faces,” he answered, his voice dropping even lower so that no one nearby would hear him. “And I think that's why – ”

Whatever else he might have planned to say was cut off by the rattle of those great chains.

Nightbird's eyes widened in astonishment as the chains rattled and an enormous slab of marble rose up from the depths. The pit became – partially – an arena. Spikes jutted from the sides of the slab, and more spikes issued from the walls on three sides. The crowd murmured in anticipation.

Formal words were spoken, but Nightbird paid little heed to what was being said. Her eyes and ears were instead taking in the hints and subtle tells in body language, of the combatants and the crowd alike. Most of the people here seemed to know the particulars of the situation; there were representatives here from every High House. Three for Haillenarte, of course; a half-dozen in Dzemael colors; and a veritable phalanx of dour-faced Durendaires. Only Edmont stood for House Fortemps, and she wondered briefly what message that was sending. Many of those on the right hand side of the room were of the Temple Knights, sober in their uniforms against the colorful costume of the noblemen. Their attitudes were sober as well, though to be fair the nobles were hardly rowdy, merely much more relaxed.

The two knights stood in their place, as lords surveying their lands, and Ser Grinnaux's voice was smug and smooth as he answered with the formal phrases required for the trial by combat.

By contrast, Alphinaud's young voice rang out like a clarion call. A challenge, to the knights who stared him down and to the Holy See at large. Nightbird wanted to applaud already.

Poor Tataru, when she spoke, could barely be heard in the gallery – but her words carried to the inquisitor, and the older man repeated what she had said, confirming that she called for a champion.

There was a beat of silence, and then Berylla strode into view, coming from the right hand side.

Haurchefant grinned hugely, before schooling his features into a more neutral expression. Most of the crowd broke out into whispers – excitement, speculation. “Isn't that the outsider Fortemps took in? I thought she was minding the whelp of the litter.” “I heard she slew fifteen wyverns with that axe at the Steps of Faith.” “I heard she's killed fifteen men between her thighs.”

That last earned the speaker a glare and a jab in his ribs from his neighbor. But then everyone was shushing each other, for Berylla was standing tall beside Alphinaud. He said something to her, and she nodded, her eyes never leaving their opponents.

The inquisitor made a final statement, and the great chains rattled once more, pulling a final section into place, a connecting panel allowing access to the arena. Nightbird leaned forward in spite of herself as the four combatants filed one by one onto the marble floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess who left out two entire pages before posting?  
> This gal!  
> Enjoy the extra scene, y'all!


	11. Marigolds and Hyacinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien is very glad to see Nightbird again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marigold is said to represent passion and creativity - but can also symbolize cruelty, grief, and jealousy.
> 
> The purple hyacinth represents deep regret, while the blue hyacinth represents constancy.

“Blessed are we who receive of Her wisdom and see justice wrought by Her divine hand! Petitioners, accused – go forth in peace!”

Nightbird's heart was in her mouth as Berylla remained bent over for a few moments more. Most everyone else in the gallery was screaming their fool heads off, slapping each others' backs, swearing cheerfully. A few looked less pleased – most especially those who had clearly bet on the wrong fighters and were handing over coin.

But she noticed them all only peripherally, focused on the warrior – then she breathed a quiet prayer of thanks when Berylla straightened at last. She and Alphinaud moved out of the arena, both of them looking tired. Nightbird's shoulders dropped for a moment as she leaned back and rubbed her eyes with one hand. Not that she had doubted Berylla's abilities...

Damn it. She must send Marius another letter. How much longer would she be forced only to watch from a distance? She ached to be able to talk to the big Roe. Marius knew what Berylla meant to her...if nothing else he owed her the courtesy of explaining why he still wanted her to keep her distance.

She looked up, in time to see Aymeric and Haurchefant exchanging grins. The Lord Commander set his hand on Haurchefant's arm and spoke. Only because Nightbird was skilled in lip reading did she know what was said.

“Go to her, my friend. Give her what you can. She will understand you.”

Before she could think on what that meant, a hand gripped her elbow.

Estinien's mouth was tense. “Come on.”

“What, you won't stay to congratulate her?”

He snorted. “Why?” He tugged at her, and she let him pull her along. He made his way through the crowd with ease, and then they were outside.

He turned to her, and wrapped her in his arms. “Hold tight to me.”

She put her arms around his neck, and he leaped.

Being carried back to the manor was an experience quite unlike any other. Not necessarily a comfortable experience, and yet, it gave her a small thrill to know that he was in such a hurry to get her alone.

She kept silent, letting him concentrate, until they were on the roof of the manor. “I didn't leave my window open, you know,” she told him, smiling a little.

He sighed. “Very well. I shall set you down near a door and meet you below.”

“You could just walk inside with me.”

He grunted, and leaped down into the service alley. “I prefer not to be seen.”

“Why?” She let go of him and stepped back a pace, and her smile was sly. “Embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Minx.” He grabbed her chin and planted a hard, quick kiss on her mouth. “Get that window open, little bird.” Then he let her go, and leaped upward, out of sight once more.

She laughed under her breath, and went inside.

She threw open the shutters and stepped back, watching in admiration as Estinien made what seemed an impossible jump from a tiny spur of rock, to her window, and then lightly leaped inside. Despite his armor, he made not a sound.

She waited until he had removed his helmet, but she couldn't hold back longer. She went to him, put her arms around his neck once more, pulling him down to her, and kissed him.

He had to push her back after a time. “Little bird,” he wheezed, “I need to breathe.”

She made a sound that was one part whimper and one part laughter and entirely needy. But she let him go, her fingers dragging across his jaw, and stepped away.

He began to remove his armor, and Nightbird watched – until he pulled off the soft black gambeson, exposing his skin at last. She was on him again in an instant, pressing him back against the windowsill, caressing him with her palms and placing little, hungry kisses everywhere she could reach.

He hissed a little and she leaned back, looking up at his face.

“Gently, little bird. Gently.”

She noticed, then, the healing marks on his upper arms. She began to move back, but he put his hands on her waist and kept her close.

He leaned down and rested his forehead against hers. His eyes closed. “I missed you.” The words were whispered, choked almost, as if he were afraid to say them.

She stepped back, taking his hands in hers and tugging him. “To the bed,” she murmured.

He went with her, and let her direct him, until he was lying on her bed, face down.

She moved away for a moment, and then he heard a quiet popping sound. He leaned up on his elbows to look around at her. She held a small blue glass bottle in one hand, and was setting aside a cork. “What is that?” he asked her.

“Marigold, jasmine, a few other things.” She came over and set the bottle down on the little bedside table. “If you don't mind my rubbing your back, this will also help...”

“Mind?” He snorted softly. “As if I would object to having your hands on me, little bird.”

“What have you been up to?” she asked, as she climbed onto the bed to kneel beside him.

“Nothing all that unusual,” he grunted. “Patrol duty out in the forelands, which is almost always,” he hissed a little as the coolness of the ointment touched his skin. “Almost always lively, to say the least. But it was a good thing we were there, stopped a raid on Tailfeather. Checked into the bug-men, too – but they were lying low again it seems.”

She smoothed the liniment across his shoulders, careful to avoid the obvious wounds. Scratch marks along his ribs on one side, punctures on the points of his shoulders – she assumed claws had gotten through his armor, found the weak spots in it. But more than that, bruises – quite a few of them on his ribs – and though they were beginning to turn brownish-yellow now, she soothed the medicine into them with gentle fingers. Even as she did so, she extended a tendril of her aether, activating the special herbs inside the liniment, and hastening his skin's ability to absorb it, as well as bolstering the healing his body already had done.

He moaned very softly, and his aether roused at the proximity of her energy, winding up tiny tendrils of its own that sought for her. Half a dozen of those tendrils wrapped themselves around her hands and wrists. Her own aether was a deep green in color, and his was a sullen red-purple, so dark as to be nearly black. Where they touched, it felt like tiny sparks inside her flesh.

She murmured as she continued to massage his back, chasing down all the little knots of tension, feeling the joints shift. If she pressed harder, just _so_...

“Ah!” Estinien's body jerked a little as his spine popped. Then he groaned in relief. “Ah, gods, that has been aching for _days_.”

She smiled, and continued her manipulations, making him groan a few more times as she worked her way from his lower back to his shoulders.

She pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, and he shivered a little, and turned over onto his side.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

He smiled, and her heart clenched at the sweetness of that smile. Then he reached out and tugged her hand. “Come here,” he told her, “and I'll show you just how I feel.”

She let him set their pace, mindful of the other bruises and cuts on his body. He tugged at her clothes, and she helped him remove each piece until she lay bare beside him. He caressed her with hands and eyes and lips, murmuring to her, things she couldn't understand, snatches of old prayers in what sounded like ancient Ishgardian.

“Are you quoting scripture to me?” she teased.

“Hmm, no,” he chuckled. “Ask Aymeric for that kind of nonsense.”

“Then what are you quoting? I'm even more curious, now.”

He smirked as he came back up from tonguing her nipples to kiss her. “Ever heard of Flavien de Fortemps?”

She furrowed her brow for a moment, then recalled seeing a mention of the name. “Founder of House Fortemps, yes?”

“Also a poet of some note,” Estinien's smile widened. “And the man must have had the filthiest mind of his time.”

“What?” Nightbird's eyes widened and she giggled. “What are you talking about, dragoon?”

He kissed her. “I didn't memorize the whole thing, but they call it the Song of Flavien,” he said. “It's basically a man praising his lover, though the priests try to say it's in praise of Halone.”

She smiled. “And what did you memorize, then?”

He leaned up to whisper in her ear, as his hand caressed her breast.

“Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks.”

She arched into his touch, her ear twitching as his warm breath ruffled the fur.

His lips trailed across her cheek. “Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely. Thy lips are as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue.”

He kissed her, his tongue fencing with hers, and his hand slid lower, curling around her waist, tugging her tighter to him until she could feel his hardness pressing against her. She whimpered a little, her hands flexing on his shoulders, her hips rolling into him.

He brought his hand up and tipped her head back, tracing the line of her jaw with the tip of his tongue until he reached her neck, where he delicately bit at her pulse before speaking again, his voice vibrating deliciously on her skin. “How fair is thy love! how much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thy skin than all spices!”

Nightbird's hands fluttered as she pressed closer to him, her mouth slightly open as she panted under his ministrations. Then she reached down, caressing the flesh of his belly even as he began to speak another line of poetry in her other ear.

“Until the day break, and the shadows flee away,” and then his words were interrupted by his loud groan as she cupped his cock through his trousers. He took her mouth with his, and kissed her breathless.

Then he dipped his head down once more to her breast and laved her nipple with his tongue. He laid a soft kiss on the soft skin above her aureole, and murmured again. “Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.”

He grinned against her flesh. “Or should I say among the hyacinths, hmm?”

“You should,” Nightbird managed, her voice shaking, “occupy your mouth in some other pursuit – ah, ah, _please!_ Estinien, please – don't _torment_ me – ”

His laugh was quiet as he slid his fingers across her damp sex. She gave a small shriek of need and ground herself against his palm. “Sing for me, my little bird.”

“Please, please, please...” She tossed her head as she begged him in song, the notes shaky and soft as she struggled to do as he wished. “ _Please_ , Estinien, I need you...!”

It was enough. He plunged two fingers inside of her and she arched in his arms, mouth open, her cry of pleasure emerging on a high note until he covered her mouth with his once more.

He worked her over mercilessly, scissoring his fingers within her, curling his fingers until she shrieked, again and again, until her thighs were slick with her excitement and she trembled in his arms, on the verge of orgasm.

With swift motions he rose up, only enough to yank his trousers down, and then he was over her, his mouth hungry on hers and his cock hot against her belly. She writhed and wriggled to get her legs around his waist. The slick on her thighs was nearly enough to send him off the edge and he gripped her shoulders in his hands as he dropped his head and groaned.

She wasn't about to let him collect himself, however, and he groaned again in pleasure and astonishment when she somehow wriggled just the right way – and he was inside of her and her hips were rocking, taking him in deeper and deeper. Her nails scored his back and broke open one of the claw marks on his shoulders, but he was far beyond caring.

He thrust against her, and she yowled into his shoulder, a primal sound that called to something within him, and he growled – a deep sound, far different from his normal voice. A dragon's voice.

His eyes flew open, but she clung to him, tighter than before, kissing his throat with such fervor that he felt her canine teeth grazing his skin. The sensation dragged another growl from him, and she hummed. Her voice wound around his, and he felt the unmistakable touch of aether – but not in a way he had ever known before.

He gasped as he realized it was her – her power, her aether, wrapping around his, power skimming across his skin as she clasped him close. Everything he was feeling suddenly intensified, and his thrusts faltered for a moment, trying to handle the overwhelming sensations.

“Gods above,” he panted, “are you trying to kill me – ”

“Love me,” she growled, her teeth against his jugular. “Make me scream, make me forget you ever were away, Estinien, love me, _love me,_ _ **love me**_ – ”

He cried out, his hips slamming against her, his aether tangled in hers, her sweat mingled with his, lost in pleasure that drowned out everything but her. His little bird. His beloved.

The very thought sent him over the edge, and he slammed into her, burying his face against her neck to muffle his shout of completion. She nearly bit him, even as she screamed his name.

After a little time, he stirred. His head was swimming and his heart still pounded; sweat prickled his skin and the marks she'd left on his shoulders stung. But all he could do was lift his head, and stare into her face.

She smiled up at him, and caressed his cheek. “I'm so glad you're back,” she whispered.

He eased himself out of her, and kissed her tenderly. “I am, too.”

She wriggled out of the bed, and he let her, too dizzy and exhausted to trust his legs to hold him. He lay on his side and just watched her, as she cleaned herself up. She turned toward him, and smiled as she brought the cloth over to him. “Are you worn out, sir dragoon?” she teased.

“Completely,” he told her, and then grinned and took the cloth from her. “Thank you.”

By the time he had cleaned himself, she had gone out into the main part of the room and come back with two mugs. He managed to get up long enough to shed his trousers properly, and to put the cloth back beside the bowl of water. Meanwhile, Nightbird turned down the coverlet.

He gratefully accepted the mug she handed him, and drained the water in one long swallow. Then, he set it down and climbed into the bed. Nightbird finished drinking her own mug of water, and turned toward him even as he pulled the coverlet up over them both.

She cuddled into his arms and he held her gently, marveling yet again at everything about her. So delicate, and yet so undeniably strong.

He was in a lot of trouble, and he knew it. He was the Azure Dragoon, and that title came with heavy responsibilities, a weight of duty that could crush the life out of any sort of relationship. He was a fool to keep coming back to her. He courted only misery for them both, and yet he could not make himself stay away.

Out there in the wilds he'd been alone with his thoughts, and at last had been unable to lie to himself any longer. He had fallen for her, head over heels. Utterly besotted. Impossible. But he couldn't change his heart...and fool that he was, he didn't want to try.

But as he lay there and listened to her, as her breathing slowed into the calm rhythms of sleep, he murmured one more line of the Song into her silken hair. “Thou hast ravished my heart with thine eyes...” He closed his eyes, and for the first time in many years, he prayed.

_Fury forgive me, how I love her. Watch over her, Halone; place your hand over her and keep her safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the extra help with part of this from thedreamerdelta!


	12. Favors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Nightbird's quiet days are interesting lately.

Two days after the trial, Nightbird woke to find a note slipped under her door – a note sealed with a dab of blue wax rather than Fortemps red.

Estinien had left her bed at dawn. But she, afforded a bit of a rest day, had gone back to sleep. She glanced at the water-clock in the corner of the room. Nearly noon – yes, time to be up and about.

She stretched carefully, wonderfully sore still from his loving. With a sigh, she sat down at her desk, and took up the pen knife to split the wax seal.

Her eyes scanned the contents, and she blinked twice and read it all over again. Alphinaud's handwriting was quite readable, but she was so surprised by the words themselves...

_Miss Kevala – I wish to extend my deepest apologies for my intractability of two days ago._

_You and Lord Haurchefant both warned me and I refused to heed your wisdom, and for that I am very sorry. I assure you, I have learned a valuable lesson, and in future I shall weigh your words with greater care, when I may._

_I would also like to thank you for your support prior to our trial._

_It was quite heartening to see a friend in that place, as I am sure you were aware._

_The Count may have sent you, but you did not have to acquiesce to his request, especially after how I acted just a few hours before. I am sincerely grateful for your generosity of spirit._

_You have proven a trustworthy ally and a good friend. I am most glad of your aid and hope that one day I might offer some small help to you, should you need it._

_I would like to request that you meet with me again, in the library, at one hour past noon today. I have specific information I would ask you to pursue, but I shall await your presence to speak further._

She set her fingers to her lips as she smiled, touched.

Then she pursed her lips at his request that she meet him. The time he specified was only fifteen minutes from now. She set aside the note, and stood up to get dressed.

He was pacing when she arrived at the library, with one arm folded across his body and the other hand near his mouth, nibbling a fingernail.

She simply stood for a moment, then cleared her throat.

He started, dropping his hand quickly, and gave her a fleeting smile. “Oh. Hello, Miss Kevala. My apologies, I was...thinking.”

“What grave matter are you thinking about,” she asked lightly, “that makes you so agitated?”

“The Archbishop.”

“What of him?”

“He summoned Berylla yesterday...for an audience. Alone. Nominally, he summoned her to apologize formally for the – er – incident.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I am given to understand the Holy See does not often extend apologies. A most unusual occasion, but it seems hardly a cause for concern.”

“I might have agreed with you, had Berylla not also related the private portion of that meeting.” He frowned for a moment as if something had just occurred to him. “You do know, I hope, of the greater purpose of our order? Not just that we eliminate primals wherever they are summoned, but also the greater threat of those beings that work from the shadows?”

“The Ascians,” she murmured. “I know of them, yes; and I have been told a few small facts about the Scions' struggles against them.”

“The Archbishop has played host to them in this very city. Recently.”

She eyed him. “Preposterous. What possible benefit could the Holy See gain from...”

He nodded as she trailed off. “You see it too. There is a struggle for supremacy going on right under the noses of most of the people of Ishgard. And if Ascians are meddling...”

“No good comes of their so-called aid,” Nightbird's voice was sour. “Certainly they have greatly increased the suffering of all the beast tribes with their so-helpful teaching of summoning rites.”

His mouth tightened. “Exactly. Berylla is concerned that the Archbishop thinks to intrigue against the Ascians, to use them to further his own ends, increase his own power, and then to betray them at the last.”

“If he thinks he can succeed, the man is going mad in his dotage,” Nightbird scoffed. “There are no Ascians that are trustworthy. Nor are their ilk inexperienced in deceit and scheming. He is a fool.”

“That may be, but he is a fool with a great deal of power, and that makes him dangerous.” He spread his hands. “This is the sort of thing that we do – tracing Ascian entanglements and spoiling Ascian plans where we can. I know you are reluctant to join the Scions in an official capacity, but I beg you to aid us in finding the information we need to stop whatever our foes are attempting within Ishgard.”

“If I can,” she cautioned. “Remember that a great deal of my own information pertains to lesser events, not the earth-shaking sort that you so eagerly pursue.”

“Understood,” he answered promptly. “I took the liberty of making a short dossier for you, with a page of specific questions that came to my own mind. Anything that you might find pertinent, or for that matter if you think of further questions, would be greatly appreciated.”

“Then I shall read over it,” she nodded. “No promises about when I might have anything to show you.”

“I expect to be traveling soon,” he told her, “so if you simply leave a note among my things here, that will suffice.”

She tilted her head. “Traveling, hm? You've found something of import.”

“General Aldynn is not yet dead.”

She blinked. “Ah...that is most unusual. I would not have expected him to live for a week after what I was told of events in Uldah. That he draws breath nearly two months later...hmm.”

“It is indeed intriguing. I am aware it may be some sort of ruse, but I have done what I can to ascertain whether we can safely visit an old friend, and ask more directly about the situation.”

“Yourself and Berylla, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“How is she?” Nightbird's voice was quiet. She couldn't help herself. “I saw that she was injured...”

“Minor injuries for the most part,” he assured her. He touched his own face for a moment, running a finger across the still healing marks from being hit by flying shards of marble. “She bounced back by yesterday morning. Which was fortunate since the Archbishop sent for her at noon yesterday.”

“I am glad to hear she is well.”

He seemed to hesitate a moment, as if he wanted to ask her something more, but then he shook his head, and bid her farewell.

Nightbird spent much of the afternoon walking all over the shabby-genteel quarters of the city, the neighborhoods where honest folk worked and lived. Most of them were crafts-men and -women; such folk were eminently pragmatic and willing to talk, provided one paid for gossip with chores or enough coin. So she spent the hours toting crates, or helping to clean shops, or minding children for a brief period while a group of washer-women handled a minor plumbing crisis.

As she did these things, she gently encouraged gossip, asked questions that were not too prying, not too leading, and yet teased out little pieces of information. She paid attention to the body language around her, noting that here, the solidarity she had grown accustomed to seeing in the city still held. Everyone knew everyone, in these neighborhoods; and no one was especially prosperous, enough so that generosity was as much a part of their lives as hard work and staid routine. They all seemed to operate on an unspoken agreement of “share and share alike.”

When the butcher received a windfall of unusually cheap meat, he shared the bounty – declaring a brief holiday of sorts, in which he and the baker colluded to plan a neighborhood feast. When the chandler's sales fell short for the week, his neighbors pitched in a few coins to help him make rent on his family's flat. All done without bickering over favors owed. It was a heartening thing to see. She had lived in Uldah for a time, and such behavior would have been so wildly outlandish there...she couldn't even picture what that gilded city would be like if her citizens were half this willing to cooperate for mutual comfort.

Yet even here, a sense of unease was beginning to seep into everyone's lives. Children did not play as freely as they had in summer. Eyes wandered to the soaring outer walls of the city, checking nervously for any sign of wings. There was a tension among the knights who patrolled the streets that communicated itself to the citizens without a word being spoken. The threat of Dravanian attack was never far from any Ishgardian thought – but the sense of an impending attack was nonetheless an ominous veil over the small and ordinary lives of these people, who might be called upon if the amassed might of the Temple Knights were insufficient to the needs of Ishgard's defense.

In the plush sitting-rooms and fine salons of the nobles, that tension manifested differently. The martially-minded were either eager for another skirmish, or gravely concerned with logistics or tactics. The faint of heart were anxious and taking it out on everyone around them with sniping and sarcasm. The wit at such gatherings was as bright and sharp as a flashing rapier held in a trembling hand.

Down in the Brume things were harsher, more blatantly unsettled. Violence was a daily occurrence, there; but now that violence turned deadlier. The people of the Brume were already on the edge of desperation. The prospect of another attack, another siege, sent them into a kind of panic that manifested as rage. Rage was directed largely at the nobility – who they saw as the authors of their suffering, at least in as much as the nobles rarely noticed the Brume _except_ to complain about it and insist on sending Temple Knights to harass the poor. But these were powerless people; they could not hope to truly threaten the wealthy or even leverage them in some way. So the rage turned in on their neighbors, their wives, their children. Tragedy walked those streets like a brazen whore, and Nightbird could not bring herself to work in the area frequently, as she had a mere month ago.

When she had still been guesting with House Haillenarte, she had heard several of the younger scions of the family discussing earnestly how to improve the lot of the poor folk of the Brume. Among them, young Francel had been among the loudest voices insisting that something must soon be done. She certainly hoped he was still arguing in favor of his ideas.

She walked back to Fortemps Manor in the twilight, taking the back paths, since she was not at all presentable enough even for the main kitchen. It had not been a bad afternoon's work at all. She had very little new to report, but even that was something in and of itself. Still, she would be glad to make her notes and return to her usual work, tomorrow.

Returning to her room, she sat down immediately and jotted down her observations, and added a single line to the page she kept for such things as she felt Alphinaud might need to know. “Ishgard is unsettled.” It was an understatement, of course, but for now it would do. She put away her notes and capped her bottle of ink, and stretched in her chair, frowning at how itchy she was. The washer-women had been pleasant but their children had been remarkably...sticky. And very _grabby_ , though she supposed that was only to be expected of a gaggle of three-year-old toddlers, no matter their race.

She ran a hand over her hair and realized there was something stuck to her left ear. That was more than enough to decide her; she _needed_ a bath after today's exertions.

She hummed softly to herself as she gathered her things and went down the hall to the communal bathing chamber that served this floor. At this hour it would be nearly deserted, and there would be no competition for the heated tub.

Nightbird came back to her room, still wrapped in a bath-robe with her hair bound up in a towel. She frowned at the chill in the room, and then noticed that her window was slightly open.

She made a noise of annoyance. She must have failed to latch it properly. The breeze that blew in through the window made her shiver, and she hurried over to close it and made sure it was latched this time.

She turned back toward her dresser and paused.

“Well, well,” Estinien smirked. “It is possible to sneak up on you, once in a while.”

She rolled her eyes and pretended to scowl. “How did you even get in? The window was locked.”

His smile widened. “That would be telling, little bird.”

She couldn't keep up the frown, and smiled a little. “Keep your secrets then, sir dragoon.”

She moved to the dresser, rubbing her hair in the towel a bit more before removing it and hanging the damp cloth across the back of her chair.

He came up behind her and stroked her hair away from the back of her neck, dipping his head to kiss and nibble at the skin there.

She shivered. “It's getting too cold to be leaving windows open,” she said lightly, reaching out for the loose gown she had laid out to sleep in.

When he caught her wrist in his hand, she smiled.

“Never fear,” he murmured into her ear. “I'll keep you warm.”

She leaned back, curling his arm around her waist and linking her fingers with his. “Of that,” she sighed, “I have no doubt.”

They lay on her bed, slowly caressing. Estinien had wasted no time in shedding his clothing, and she in her turn had made certain they were _under_ the blankets. Late fall in Ishgard meant the beginning of the coldest weather and the harshest storms. She had read accounts of blizzards so terrible, of nights so cold, that birds were found dead on the eaves of houses come morning. The very thought of it made her shiver.

He kissed her, his hands soothing the shiver away, and she traced her fingernail along a thin white scar on his shoulder. “Still cold?” he murmured against her mouth.

“Perhaps a little.”

He skimmed his hand across her breast, and she hummed a little, pleased. As always, his eyes lit at the sound of her voice, and he dipped his head to place his lips over her nipple. She buried her hands in his hair and arched against him, her leg sliding upwards to rub gently against his manhood.

“Ah, little bird,” he murmured, his voice making her skin tingle, “how sweet you are.”

He moved more quickly, then, placing small kisses along her ribs and her belly even as he gently pushed her legs open wide to allow him to kneel between them. The blanket fell back, exposing them both, but she didn't mind.

He came back up to suckle at her breasts again as he slipped two fingers inside of her sex, and she moaned, greedy for more of his touch.

Her tail curved up and lightly curled around to stroke his ribs. He shuddered a bit and then laughed, “If you are going to tickle me, perhaps I should do the same to you.”

Nightbird made a most unmusical squeak as he swiftly grabbed her tail in his hand. “Estinien, don't you dare!”

But he had the furry appendage in a firm grip and she could not pull free. He smiled a little, watching her face as he knelt and carefully set his other hand around the tail. Before she could protest or struggle further, he began ever-so-gently stroking the fur, and she shut her eyes and groaned softly.

“Stop,” she pleaded, weakly. “It's...ah!...Estinien, it's sensitive...please don't...don't...”

“Don't, what?” His voice was warm and fond. “Am I hurting you?”

She couldn't lie. “No but it...ah....hah...Estinien, it's _embarrassing_.”

He only laughed. Then – a sensation like none she'd ever felt – her eyes flew open and she cried out, breathy and high, to see him wrap his lips around the end of her tail and _suck_.

“ _Estinien!_ ”

“Hmm?”

She writhed and pulled free of him, panting harshly. “T-too much...!”

“Too much?” His smile turned wicked. “I think perhaps not.”

“What are you...Estinien, you _devil_ , what are you plotting?”

“On your knees, my lovely little bird,” he told her.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and then moved – but instead of positioning herself the way she knew he meant her to, she instead twisted round until she could kneel and cup his balls in one of her hands even as she stroked his cock with the other.

He groaned, his hands flexing on her shoulders. “Not what I meant.”

“I know that.” She gave him a saucy grin, and then bent to take him in her mouth.

His hips pumped forward into her instantly, even as he groaned again, louder, and gripped her hair for a moment.

But he was not finished tormenting her, and she moaned in anxious pleasure when she felt his hands on her rear, stroking the line of her spine to where her tail began. She wanted to protest, to tell him no, that it would be too intense. But his cock stayed in her mouth and his palms cupped her ass, and his thumbs stroked that oh-so-sensitive spot at the base of her tail, and all she could do was gasp and pant and moan at the incredible sensations he was causing.

When he slipped his fingers further, brushing against the tight warmth of her rear entrance, she cried out around his cock, frightened even though her sex gushed, juices flowing across her thighs.

He stopped, and tugged her away from him, drawing her up until he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her. His cock rubbed against her belly, damp with her saliva.

“Sh,” he whispered, nibbling her bottom lip. “You know I would never hurt you. Don't you?”

“I – it's just – Estinien, it's too much,” she whimpered. “I've never...not _there_.”

“Sh,” he said again, and kissed her deeply now, his hands kneading her ass, grinding her against him. “There's a first time for everything, is there not?”

She moaned, and shuddered under his hands.

“Kneel for me, my beautiful bird. I promise, I won't harm you.”

Slowly, nervously, she turned, and went onto all fours. Her tail thrashed.

He set his hands on her rear again, and she tried to look over her shoulder at him.

“Relax,” he soothed her back with one hand. “Trust me.”

He slipped his fingers into her, and she shuddered hard, hips stuttering back against him, trying to grind against his hand.

He worked her with slow strokes for a few moments, murmuring quiet encouragement. “Yes, that's right...so very wet for me, that's just what we need.”

She whimpered again, uncertain and yet flooded with pleasure.

She felt his fingers leave her, but then the heat of his cock pressed against her entrance, and she hissed his name, hips rolling as he rubbed himself against her folds for a moment.

When he slid himself into her, she cried out.

But he remained still, even though she felt his hands tremble on her hips.

“Now...” And then his fingers were stroking her tail once more.

She made a strangled sort of cry, her sight going gray with the intensity of the sensations his thumbs raised with each firm stroke. “S- S – Estinien, ah gods, I can't – ah! Please!”

He laughed once more, and then she squealed as his thumb slid lower, to press once more against that tight hot ring below her tail. Her voice trembled with the shuddering of her body.

“Sh, sh,” he soothed. “Sh. It won't hurt.”

She could feel the slick against her, and foggily understood that he had spread her own juices onto his fingers and his thumb. Then – pressure, again, mounting, as he eased his thumb inside of her.

Her breaths came fast and light and her heart felt like it would pound right out of her chest. She stammered his name, over and over, even as his thumb stretched her mercilessly. And then – her eyes popped open and she squealed once more at the incredible, intense pleasure – what had he _done_ to her?

His hand soothed her back. “You're doing very well, little bird,” he crooned. “Sh, relax. I won't go farther in, not tonight.”

“I – I – I – Estinien...!”

“Shush now, just relax. Move that sweet little ass against me...yes.” He groaned. “Ah, gods. Yes, that's the way...my little song bird. Ride my cock, now, good...”

She panted harshly, open mouthed, as she eased herself forward and back. His cock felt larger than ever, and she felt certain she might split if he moved too fast. But as he promised, his thumb in her ass did not move, and her body adjusted to the intrusion, until the fear faded and only the pleasure remained.

Her cries grew louder, as he began to thrust into her. His hips slapped against her ass, and every time he buried himself fully inside her sex, she wailed into the pillow. Her thighs shuddered, her back arched, and with another wail she was coming, transfixed on his cock, the climax robbing her of voice and breath and sight.

Estinien groaned, feeling her walls flex and pulse around him. She was so incredibly tight this way. He gripped her hip with one hand and pounded into her, his lust overtaking him. She bounced with every stroke, her head down, trembling under him and around him.

Her orgasm faded, but peaked again almost instantly as he gently rocked his thumb inside of her – not quite sliding it out or in, but the motion itself was enough to drive her over the edge.

She screamed – once, twice, a third time – and then he was curling over her. There was a popping sound as his thumb left her, and he was clutching her hips hard enough to bruise, his hips slamming into her as he lost himself to his own orgasm.

They both sagged, she on her belly and he resting mostly atop her; both of them were slick with sweat. Nightbird's body shuddered, aftershocks continuing until at last he eased his cock out of her.

He moved off the bed, and slowly he cleaned her, and himself. She had her arms wrapped around her pillow, face buried in the softness of it, and didn't speak.

But when he came back into the bed, she let go of the pillow to curl against him, hands tucked up between her breasts. He pulled the blanket over the two of them and eased his arm under her head.

“You are all right, aren't you?” he murmured into her hair.

“I'm...not sure...how I survived that.” She was still panting for breath, still trembling. “Never...never in my life...has it ever...been like...that.”

He held her carefully, and let her rest. Presently she shifted back, and looked up at him.

He met her eyes. “If you are truly unhappy about what I just did...”

“Not...unhappy.” She smiled, weakly. “But not...let us not do that...often.”

He smiled gently and kissed her. “As my lady wishes.”

“I'm going on a journey,” he told her, after they had both caught their breath at last.

“Oh?”

“That Alphinaud has hatched a plan.” Estinien's lips twisted, not quite a smile. “He thinks he can talk to the dragons, persuade them to leave off attacking us.”

Nightbird's eyes widened. “He means to mediate an end to a war that's gone on for a thousand years?”

“I highly doubt he will do any such thing,” Estinien's laugh was sardonic, “but I can't very well allow the young fool to go alone, and get himself eaten. Berylla would beat me senseless.”

“I wouldn't be very happy either,” Nightbird chuckled. “That young man is far too valuable to allow him to become dragon food.”

“Attached, are you?”

She snorted. “Hardly. He is a useful ally. He is important to Berylla. That's all.”

He cradled her head on his arm and kissed her nose. “There is a very slim chance that we will enjoy some measure of success. If nothing else...” his eyes became a bit distant as he thought. “If nothing else, I can certainly locate Nidhogg's current lair. Such information is worth this journey, aside from all other potential outcomes.”

“Surely Alphinaud does not mean to go knocking on the wyrm's very door?”

“No, he aims to talk to other dragons, or at least I think that's what he means to do. The very first thing, however, is contacting the heretics. They already have contact with those dragons willing to talk first and eat later.”

“Are you...” she paused. “Does the Holy See endorse this plan?”

His grin was wolfish. “The Holy See does not know about this plan. Not even Aymeric, for we were most careful not to tell him any details that would force him to object.”

She smiled back. “How clever of you.” Then her smile faded. “How dangerous is this going to be, truly?”

“No more dangerous than any scouting foray into the home lands of the Dravanians,” he shrugged. “I would not have lent them my lance if I believed it stood no chance at all.”

“Of course not. But I confess to a tiny bit of worry.”

“A tiny bit?” He raised his eyebrows. “Only a tiny bit?”

Her eyes crinkled. “Hm, yes, merely a dust speck of worry.”

“You wound me,” he teased. “To think I believed you cared...” His voice died and he looked away. His mouth clamped shut and his body tensed.

Nightbird watched him for a moment. “Estinien.”

He did not turn his head, but his eyes flicked to her face for a moment.

“Estinien, I do not play games of the heart.” She kept her voice steady, light. “I do not lie to my lovers, and I do not require them to lie to me. So what I say, I mean.” She reached out and took his chin in her hand, making him look at her again.

He watched her, his eyes dark, hooded, wary.

“I care about you, Estinien. You mean a great deal to me, and I do worry about you. I don't intend to be a fool, however. I will not require promises of you.”

She leaned in, and kissed him, a gentle, inescapable kiss. Then, she leaned her forehead against his. “I am not a needy woman,” she told him.

He shut his eyes. “I will not lie. That is a relief to me. The Azure Dragoon must needs always put his duty first.”

“I know.” She lay back and snuggled into his shoulder. “I know full well that promises are not so easy, for the likes of us.”

He remained tense for a few moments longer. Nightbird waited patiently, and his arms eased around her once more, gentle and warm.

“I could wish,” he murmured, “that it was otherwise. But you are right.”

“Of course I am.” She smiled at the exasperated noise he made.

“Did you know, the archbishop granted an audience to your warrior friend?”

“Yes, Alphinaud informed me. He told me he had some concerns about the matter. Though I suppose a more-or-less public apology is nice...”

“A sham,” Estinien snorted. “The entire incident was manufactured, I'm certain of it.”

“Oh? But why go to such bother?”

“Because now, he knows what Berylla can do. His knights have seen her in action, and will certainly have assessed her and reported their observations to their master.” He shifted a little, settling more comfortably into the pillows. “I suspect he wishes to use her as a pawn. He is very fond of pawns, is Thordan.”

“You don't seem to approve.”

“My approval is not required,” he answered, his voice dry as a Thanalan summer. “All Thordan requires is my obedience to any direct orders, and competence in my leadership of the dragoons otherwise.”

“I see.”

He stroked her hair. “I confess, I always felt I had it easiest of the three of us. Myself, Aymeric, and Haurchefant, that is. Haurchefant will likely never see any better position than what he has now, not that he really cares all that much. He is content with the knighthood he fought to earn, I suppose.”

Nightbird hummed thoughtfully. “And Aymeric?”

“He's in the worst situation. All the power of the Lord Commander, and half the respect he deserves.” She felt him scowling. “Less than half. Sometimes I wonder why he tolerates being used by the Archbishop the way he does.”

“Perhaps because he feels that he can do more good this way? He seems to most earnestly wish the best for Ishgard.”

“How do you know?”

“I have spoken with him on occasion,” she reminded the dragoon gently. “He attends performances when he has time – which is not often. And I was asked to deliver a message to him not long ago; he was kind enough to extend me the courtesy of sharing a meal with him.”

“He didn't tell me about that.” Estinien seemed perturbed.

“It was the same day as the trial. Perhaps it simply didn't come up in conversation.” Her tone was calm, but she felt a tiny thrill along her skin at the tone of Estinien's voice. He was jealous. There was no doubt in her about that. For all his refusal to make promises or ask them of her...he was _jealous_ at the thought of another man spending time with her, even if that man was his friend.

She didn't understand, yet, quite all the reasons for the way Estinien acted. But she was patient. There was no need for her to rush, no need for her to pursue him as if he were quarry. She had long ago admitted to herself that she wanted him – wanted those promises she had so airily dismissed just now, wanted to weave her life with his...

But as she had said: she was not a fool. He _was_ right – his duty must come first, always, and she would not interfere with that. She knew he had strong feelings for her. She could sense them in the way he touched her, in the way he spoke her name in the throes of their pleasures. But he still tried to hide from her, and she knew, though she could not say why, that if she were only patient enough, he would come to trust her at last.

So she accepted his love-making, accepted his silences and his sullen moments along with his rare and precious smiles. She would love him, quietly, without making demands to which he could not respond.

She shifted, and rubbed her foot along his leg even as she skimmed her hands across his bare chest. That did not mean, however, that she need restrain herself from making _any_ demands...

He divined her intent immediately, and laughed low and quiet, as he rolled her onto her back.


	13. Don't Be Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A song such as you have never heard...

Berylla had only sung a few songs before declaring herself tired. Estinien's lance was long since sharpened and polished to a gleam, and Ysayle had quietly cleaned up after their meal even while the big Roe sang – sea songs of some sort, he supposed, though he had barely listened. Her singing voice wasn't half bad, but it had about as much effect on him as any other musician's efforts – which was to say, not much at all. Instead it had only made him think about Nightbird's voice...

He watched Alphinaud's face, as the warrior stretched and then laid down on her bedroll. The younger man – not a boy, for all Estinien's teasing – did a poor job of hiding his feelings. Then again, Berylla seemed happily oblivious, settling right down and dropping off to sleep in minutes, despite being watched so very closely from just a dozen feet away.

Well, it was no business of his, was it, if Leveilleur wanted to waste his energies pining silently. It wasn't as if he had asked Estinien for _advice_ , in the hours he had spent talking to the dragoon while they waited for Berylla to return from her foray against the Gnath tribe's little god.

The scholar looked up and saw Estinien watching him, and his face went red for a moment as the dragoon grinned. With great dignity, Alphinaud turned away, and got into his own bedroll, pointedly keeping his back to the rest of them. Estinien smothered a laugh.

He straightened, and took up his lance. He looked up at the columns that still stood, gauging their stability by eye and long experience with jumping on most anything. “I shall take the watch,” he said quietly, knowing that Ysayle was looking at him. Without waiting for her response, he leaped up, and perched atop the tallest column. A good vantage point, for him. Anything that thought to disturb their tiny camp would not escape his notice, and the wind was quite cool enough to keep him wakeful. The moon had risen, by now, and its pale radiance seemed to call forth an answering glow from the white stones all around them. Visibility would not be a problem, so long as the weather held.

He saw the silver haired woman hesitate a moment, then shrug. He was not terribly surprised when she took up a position on her knees, as if in prayer or meditation. The raw winds of this place troubled her not at all, but he would have honestly been surprised to find otherwise. The woman had haunted the snows of Coerthas for more than long enough to become unaffected by mere _natural_ cold.

He turned his face toward the moon for a time, eyes half shut, just listening. Odd how he had never truly paid attention to sounds – not the way he did now. Ever since that first night with the bard, he had found himself listening differently, and to his surprise, sometimes even enjoying what he heard.

Before, birdsong had meant only that no predators were in the area. It still served as a kind of safe signal, but now – now he took a breath to appreciate the song. He noticed voices differently. He had, just a week ago, paused during a patrol to listen to the Vault's choir singing the evensong – something he had not done since he was a recruit, still learning the lance with Alberic.

And yet, beautiful as that had been, it was still nothing compared to hearing Nightbird say his name.

Bah. He was turning into a mush headed, sentimental idiot. This was no time to let his mind wander. They were not safe here, despite the deceptive calm, the quiet that seemed to wrap around this place among the Mists.

He had long ago decided that the notion that any place could be “sacred” was a lot of nonsense – the Vault was reckoned by many to be holy ground, after all, and he knew all too well how much of a lie that was. But he still could not help but think of the ruins around them as being what the Vault only pretended at: holy ground, even if not in worship of anything he and his people would recognize. And not any particular god, either – there were no images carved into these stones, no prayers inscribed, none of the trappings that he had come to associate with worship.

But grandeur...ah, that there was in plenty, even tumbled into ruin as so much of it was. And what he could see of the lines of the structures reminded him of home, in an odd way; like an itch of remembrance, half of the things he saw called to mind the oldest structures in Ishgard.

He flinched away from the next logical thought. He had spoken of it earlier, and it was true: he could not deny that man and dragon had once lived side by side, as neighbors...as friends. But that did not mean he was comfortable with the notion. For if they had been friends, and if Ysayle was correct in her assertion that mankind had begun this bloody damned war...it called into question everything Estinien had ever been taught, everything he had believed true. Even the realizations he had come to thus far threatened to topple his entire world around his ears, turning so many of his own assumptions about his life upside down the way they had.

Better to contemplate his relationship troubles, perhaps.

He wondered, briefly, what Nightbird was doing now. It was not quite midnight; did she have a concert tonight? Was she avoiding that damned Dzemael, if so? He knew Tibernus had been sniffing around her again. Well. She could defend herself handily, as he knew.

He snorted a little bit, thinking back on how she had shown him the proof of her blessing from Hydaelyn. Clearly Berylla still had no clue about that, and neither did Alphinaud. He was certain the boy would have mentioned it in all his fretting earlier, if he had any notion of what Nightbird truly was.

He caught a sound – a scrape of scales, the tick of claws on stone – and came alert, barely moving, scanning the ground with the barest turn of his head. There – a smallish wyvern. But the creature was merely nosing about in the lank grass, and presently turned away, showing no inclination to approach the camp. He let it wander off.

A year ago he might have chased it down. Now, he didn't care to waste the energy on such a chase. The shrieks of dying dragons no longer soothed the rage in his breast, ever since he had nearly succumbed to the Eye. There was only a weary determination, now, a resolution to see his duty through to the bitter end.

He could feel Nidhogg. Not close by, but here, somewhere in the chaos of floating rock and unlikely wildlife and twisted vegetation. The rage of the Eye pulsed in time with his heartbeat, hot as a lover's breath on his very soul. He had carried this burden for long enough that he knew in exquisite and painful detail what was “normal” activity. The dread wyrm knew they were here – knew what they had wrought at the top of Sohm Al. They had murdered his consort, in order to set foot on the lands here. And yet – no attack had yet come. No hordes of lesser dragon-kind had descended on them, there were no hunters on their heels.

Why? Why was he waiting?

The great, white dragon flapped away. The wind of his passing caused the tower of Zenith to hum once more. When that gargantuan resonance faded away, the only sound was of Ysayle's broken weeping.

Estinien regarded the woman, as she knelt, nearly with her face on the ground, sobbing as if the world was crumbling around her. Mere hours ago, he would have mocked her for such a display of weakness.

Now he could only stare, glad that his helm hid most of his expression. He wasn't sure he could truly hide the dismay he felt at seeing her thus; the discomfort of realizing that, for Lady Iceheart, the world had just ended. Every belief she had cherished – everything she had worked for, had killed for – a lie, a mere illusion of her own mind. A child's wish, broken into pieces on the rocks of reality.

He pulled his mind away from the scene, turned his back on her, and spoke harshly to the others. He could do nothing here. He didn't want to stay here and listen to her grief.

Let him instead seek out the black heart that had authored so much pain.

Berylla and Alphinaud had left hours ago. Estinien still stood, just where he had been. His eyes were closed as he tried to poke at the glowering cloud above him, to use the nebulous feelings granted him through the Eye to assess the state of the defenses within the roiling chaos.

But only rage met him, rage and a sense that Nidhogg knew he was there, knew what he was attempting, knew and delighted in blocking him from gleaning anything useful.

Night came, and went, and still he stood. But at last, as dawn pierced through clouds and stabbed him in the eyes, he gave up and stepped down, to sit on the parapet and stretch slowly. Hours of vigil and all he had to show for it was a headache, a sore body, and the nagging sense that Nidhogg wanted them to attempt his lair; to force them into a fight on his chosen ground.

Once his joints had ceased complaining and his blood felt less sluggish, he tapped the link-pearl stud that let him activate the device without removing his helm. It chimed twice, and then was answered.

He made a basic report to Aymeric, terse almost to the point of rudeness, and then demanded to know what progress Berylla and Alphinaud had made, if any, on obtaining transport. Aymeric was silent for a moment. “They have not reported in,” he said at last. Before Estinien could curse, he added, “However, I can send a message to Master Garlond, and determine if they have spoken to him.”

“I'm coming back to the city, then. Nothing is going to change here for the time being.”

“Very well.”

Estinien killed the connection and stretched one more time. Then, he headed for home.

The city was waiting.

Nightbird could taste the tension in the air, she could hear it in the heavy silences between conversations. Even the nobles stank of fear as they sat listening to her sing, pretending to be all smiles and casual relaxation.

The rumors had intensified, solidified, and now they had become fact. The Horde of Nidhogg was coming. There was no question as to whether the dragons would attack, no doubt as to the ferocity they would hurl upon the city's walls. The only uncertainty was when, when, when – a thrum of anxiety that pulsed through all of Ishgard from the Brume to the Vault, a fluttering heartbeat of dread and desperation.

Even the usual heretical whispers – only repent and the dragons will show us mercy – had fallen eerily silent. Nightbird's sources said the heretic leader – Lady Iceheart – had gone missing. More disturbing, money was moving about the lower streets – pouches paid for plans made, silent plans never put to paper. Nothing she could trace, much to her frustration. She knew the shape of trouble when she saw it lurking in the shadows, and this was very, very big trouble indeed.

Estinien had left her in the dead of night, this time. She had been so very tired after the things they had done, she barely registered him sliding out of the bed and getting dressed. He had come back, and woken her just enough to kiss her and whisper goodbye. That was three days ago.

Preparations had begun apace the very next morning after he left, and the tension had only coiled, congealed. Before, only sharp wit and sharp words had been on display; now, as night faded and the fourth day began, blades were out in the Brume and she could hear, even from the garden at Fortemps Manor, the shouts and cries as the Temple Knights and the dragoons both were pressed into service to discourage fighting – in the streets, at least. The jails would be full this morning.

Count Edmont cleared his throat, and she returned her wandering attention to her employer.

“My apologies, my lord.”

“None are needed,” he said easily, with a small smile. “Please, help yourself to some more food. It is clear you've had little rest, my dear.”

“You are most kind, sir. Thank you.” But even as she took another pastry, she knew the older man had more to say. He had not requested her to take breakfast with him in his garden on a whim. Edmont de Fortemps did nothing on a whim, she had learned well.

“Your mysterious friend Marius is in the city,” the Count said as she finished the pastry.

Her eyes flew to meet his, and for one moment, he smiled the way his son could smile – a beam of sunlight through a cloud, a singularly charming smile.

“Not to worry,” he soothed her. “He contacted me not long after his last visit, and has been keeping me somewhat apprised of several situations. Most specifically, he wished to make me amenable to...shall we say, altering the terms of your contract slightly.”

She took a large swallow of tea. “Do go on, my lord. I am most...intrigued, I must say.”

What she was, was furious. Marius was being high handed again, the sneaky son of a...

“There were two items of particular note that I wish to discuss with you. The first being one Tibernus de Dzemael.”

She felt her cheeks going hot. “My lord, I...”

He held up one hand. “No, listen, Miss Kevala.” He took one of her hands in his. “Nightbird.” His voice was very serious as he held her gaze. “I am told that you are very nearly a sister to Berylla. Is this not true?”

“It...it is.”

“Then, as she is my daughter, so shall you be. If not in name, then in the way you will be treated. I can do no less for a woman who has done the impossible and resisted my rascal of a son, to cling to a certain very spiky dragoon.”

Nightbird's mouth dropped open in utter shock. “I...I...my lord, I fear I do not quite know what to say.”

“A rare occurrence,” he chuckled. “You have been of immense value to my House, young lady, and even without your connection to the Warrior of Light, I would have found some excuse for this. Forgive me for taking something of a liberty...”

He let go of her hand, and reached into his coat pocket. She knew the seal on the folded paper he handed her; she didn't need to read it. Officially a member of his House – no less a part of the family than Berylla or Alphinaud or Tataru.

“My lord, this is...I...” She blinked rapidly. “Are you certain this is...necessary?”

“Oh, perhaps not necessary.” His eyes twinkled. “But it would be my pleasure to call you niece. If you would do me that honor.”

For one moment she was stunned into complete silence. Part of her – that part of her that could not take a single damn thing seriously – wondered if the man simply went about collecting strays, the way some old women went about adopting kittens by the dozen. Another part of her, far more pragmatic, recognized that his gesture was largely sentimental. The kind of adoption he was offering her was quite similar to what he had done for the Scions, granting them the protection of his name, the hospitality and resources of the manor, and very little else.

Still, the very fact that he felt sentimental enough about her to extend such an offer...

“I am the one who is honored,” she managed at last. “Deeply honored.”

“Good,” and he smiled. “As my niece, I will be assigning someone to guard your person when you leave the house – most of the time.” He patted her hand. “I am aware that from time to time you must go about the city unnoticed, but whenever you are – shall we say, officially yourself – I want you protected. Tibernus is more dangerous than he seems, and I have no wish to see harm come to you, nor shame upon my House, for lack of a simple precaution.”

She stared at him, and wondered what prompted such a precaution. Tibernus had been present at last night's concert – again – but he had merely sat in the front row and stared at her as if his eyes might burn marks into her skin. Unpleasant, rude, unsettling even – but hardly harmful.

But she had no chance to ask about the matter, for he was continuing. “The second item is that Marius wishes for you to be available to him for the next few days. I am freeing you of your rehearsal schedule, and pushing back the date of the next large concert that you and I had planned. This works in my favor as well,” he added before she could speak. “There are certain repairs that have waited long enough, some additions I have planned to make. This is as good a time as any for those.”

She swallowed, and shook herself mentally. Marius would not have asked for such a thing if there were not a great need. She turned her hand, so that her palm met the Count's, and lightly curled her fingers around his hand. “I will not pretend to understand all of this, not right now,” she told him. “But I will endeavor to make certain that you do not regret these decisions...uncle.” The word felt strange in her mouth.

When he smiled at her, the joy in his face drew forth an answering smile from her. Sentimental, perhaps, maybe even contrived sentimentality...but somehow her heart did not believe it for a moment.

He squeezed her hand once, and let her go. “You are expected, I believe, near the Crozier, at about mid-morning. Marius was not terribly specific on that point.”

She nodded, and rose from the table. “I will make ready and go to him.” On impulse, she leaned down and kissed the older man's cheek – a mere brush of lips to skin, quick, ephemeral. “I shall keep you informed as best I may,” she promised, and took her leave.

In her own room, she leaned up against the door and regarded the paper in her hand for a long moment. Stubbornly she ignored the mistiness of her eyes, and made herself focus on the _practical_ aspects of this new twist in her life. He had not said he was canceling her contract. Very little was really changing, for all the emotions swirling around in her head. She was being granted time off, with a plausible excuse as to why, and an extra bit of reasoning to bolster what could be seen as unusual favor from certain perspectives. Neither she, nor the Count, needed or wanted rumors to begin that claimed she was sleeping with the lord of the manor to obtain favors.

The Count benefited from this kindness as much – possibly more – than she did. He was, after all, befriending powerful individuals. Perhaps he would never need to call on such friends. But Nightbird knew Berylla, and she felt that Alphinaud too would answer instantly, should the Count ever need them. And if she were honest with herself...so would she. She had never intended to become emotionally invested in this city of snow and spires. But, it would seem that Ishgard had won her heart.

She pushed away from her door and tucked the paper into the thin case she used for her most important documents. Then, she set about making ready for battle.

After all, Marius had specifically asked for her, and that could only mean one thing: trouble.

Estinien landed outside her window with a thump, and Nightbird looked up, startled, leaving her gear laid out on the table.

She rushed to the window and let him in, immediately noticing that he was in all his armor, and it was still dusty from traveling. “What news? Did you...?”

“So you haven't heard from them either,” he said cryptically.

“From whom?” She frowned at him.

“Berylla. Alphinaud. Either of them.”

“No. But I wouldn't, they would have reported to Ser Aymeric first, would they not...?”

“Apparently not.”

She bit her lip, but before she could say more, she heard the chime of a link-pearl, oddly muffled. When Estinien touched a finger to his helm, she understood.

She ran her eyes over him as he listened silently. He didn't look hurt at all, just tired, if the way he held himself and the rather rough landing at her window were any indication.

“Oh.” Estinien sighed. “Yes, I suppose I understand. I'll come by later. I need rest before I can make a sensible report.” A pause. “Hmph,” he grunted, and tapped his helm.

“Only Ser Aymeric would tolerate such an attitude,” Nightbird observed, and shook her head in mock disappointment. “You're a hopeless mess, dragoon.”

He pulled off his helm and set it aside. “Perhaps, but I am a _tired_ hopeless mess.” He reached for her, and she let him pull her into a warm embrace.

But when he would have begun to kiss her, she eased back a little. “As much as I would like to tarry a while,” she told him regretfully, “I must get dressed and leave for a time.”

“Rehearsal could wait half an hour,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.

“I'm not going to rehearsal, you devil.” She kissed the end of his nose, and then stepped back. “Something's brewing, and I'm hoping to help head off trouble.” She looked up at him. “You are more than welcome to stay, and rest here, if you wish.”

He crossed his arms for a moment, frowning at her. “What sort of trouble?”

“If I knew that, I would already be out there,” she shrugged. “Something serious enough that Marius asked the Count to allow me time to come help.”

“Should I also come along, then?” He tilted his head in offer.

“I think that the people around the Harp would be more disturbed than reassured by the presence of the fearsome Azure Dragoon, love.”

“Huh.” He snorted. Then, “Make some time. Don't go. Not yet.”

“You are _such_ a devil,” she shook her head, chuckling. “What would you have me do, Estinien? Sing you to sleep?”

Something sparked in his eyes, and he began to shed his armor.

She watched him, rooted to the spot, mesmerized as each piece of drachenmail clattered to the floor, cast aside without a blink from those intensely blue eyes. He shed the soft undershirt and paced towards her, clad only in the tight fitting black pants. She gasped as he grasped her upper arms, seeing blue flame rising from his skin, insubstantial as steam.

His thumbs caressed her arms, and fire danced in his eyes. “Yes. Sing to me.”

“Estinien, I – ”

He scooped her up in his arms and she gasped in surprise, throwing her arms around his neck in reflex. Then his mouth was on hers, and she melted in spite of herself. The taste of him filled her head, enchanted her, stilled her very thoughts.

Then he was setting her on the bed, climbing onto the mattress and looming over her.

“I want you to sing,” he growled. “One more time, Nightbird.”

She searched his face, and understanding dawned. “What is it that has you so afraid?”

He bared his teeth at her. “I will not be here when you return,” he told her. “It is time that I faced the dread wyrm. One final fight.”

She felt as if her heart might stop. The pain in her chest was horrendous. “Oh,” she breathed.

He buried his face in her hair, and his lips moved against her throat. “So sing for me, little bird. Sing me to sleep, that I might rest before I go.”

She shuddered, her breath catching. Then his mouth was slanting hot over her own, and her hands were in his hair. He slid her dress up her legs, and tugged her smalls down, then off. He caressed her, cupped her rear end and pressed her against him, and she whimpered softly as her nails scraped across his back. Then with a quick motion, he yanked his pants down, and his cock was gliding along her entrance, teasing, taunting, tormenting.

She let out a growl. She flexed her legs, twisted her hips, and threw him over sideways, then scrambled on top of him. “You damned devil,” she whispered harshly. “A song you wish, _a song you shall have_...”

He grinned up at her and thrust his hips into her, so that she rocked forward and nearly fell across his chest. She bared her teeth and clenched her thighs against him, then lifted her hips, and brought herself down on his cock, fast and hard.

Pain blossomed between her legs, but the protests of her muscles faded out in the bliss of taking him, of seeing his eyes roll back in his head, of feeling his hands clutching at her hips. He was at her mercy.

He might not remain so, but she did not intend that he get the chance to recover. She seized his face in her hands, seized his cock with her sex, and took his mouth with hers in a ferocious kiss, letting her fangs graze his lips, just short of biting. “A song such as you have never heard,” she muttered into his mouth.

She flexed around him, chasing the last of the pain away even as she planted a kiss on his bare chest. Using her lips as the point of contact, she seized him once more – this time, with her aether.

And then she _hummed_.

A single note, in the lower part of her voice, resonating against his flesh and then through him. To anyone looking upon them from outside, nothing more.

Estinien's eyes squeezed shut and his mouth opened, but not a sound came out. He arched, and Nightbird balanced atop him, her head thrown back. When he collapsed back onto the mattress, she began to ride him, bouncing, wringing groan after groan out of the man beneath her with every stroke.

She was trying to kill him, she truly was, this time. He had _never_ felt sensations like these. He could barely breathe for the intensity, and he struggled to hang on to sense and sanity. But when she moaned, loud and long, his eyes opened wide and he burst into flames.

He knew what was happening – he didn't know what it might do to the woman who had unleashed him like this. But her aether gripped him yet, and he did not fight her, didn't _want_ to fight her, he wanted to _claim_ her –

Blue fire licked along his skin, then enveloped Nightbird, and she shrieked.

Within his head he heard her voice, though she was crying out atop him.

 _Don't be scared_.

What? Of course he wasn't afraid – not of _her_ –

 _You need not be alone with this burden_.

He didn't understand what she was doing to him. All he knew was soul-rattling pleasure, and her power was soaking into his bones, racing through his blood, melting him, melting _into_ him, and then without a warning he cried out, his voice mangled, something halfway between a dragon's roar and a man's cry of completion, and he was coming and coming and _coming_ –

Silence.

He opened his eyes, and realized he was alone in the bed. Naked, but under the covers. The room was silent, and he knew somehow that she was gone.

Fury, what had she _done_ to him?

But he was too weary to do more than wonder. The scent of her pervaded his senses, and he turned on his side and tumbled into sleep.

Against all expectation, he did not dream.


	14. Airs Above the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird worries about Estinien, until she has to worry more about herself.

She made her way to the tavern, and sat down at the bar.

“You look a bit peaked today, m'dear.”

“Yes. It has been...quite a day.” She didn't meet the barkeep's eyes. “Please, cider and two shots of whiskey.”

Her body ached, her head was pounding, and her heart hurt. Of _course_ she looked peaked.

She saw from underneath her lashes how Fleurance opened her mouth, then visibly changed her mind about saying anything. The whiskey – a bottle kept beneath the bar and not on public offer – came out, and the Elezen woman set a tumbler on the bar in front of Nightbird. She poured – probably a bit more than two shots' worth – and then put the bottle away, before turning to draw a mug of cider from one of the barrels kept on the wall behind the bar.

Nightbird slammed back the whiskey. It wasn't the best solution for _anything_ , but it would take the edge of all the things that hurt right now, and let her concentrate.

The mug of cider landed on the bar in front of her with a small thump. She dug in her pouch for coins, and Fleurance set her hand over the mug. Nightbird looked up and met the barkeep's eyes.

“Tell me about it, and it's free.” The words were spoken with shades of both offer and demand. Fleurance's last battle had been in defense of the Steps of Faith; a wyvern had clipped her in the head, and had Nightbird not been close by, the woman likely would have died. As it was, she had lost some of her vision on one side, enough that she was mustered out of the Temple Knights and forced to find other employment. Fleurance felt she owed Nightbird a life-debt because of all that; a state of affairs that left Nightbird a bit uncomfortable.

So when the Elezen spoke, practically insisting that Nightbird confide in her...

“There's too much to go into detail.” The bard sighed, and set the whiskey glass aside. “Someone I care for is going into a battle that he does not expect to survive. I just came from saying good-bye.”

Fleurance's eyebrows went up. “Aye, that's whiskey news, for true.” Then she cocked her head. “Not that I am not sympathetic, but...surely you knew a day like this might come. Bedding the Azure Dragoon...”

Nightbird's face felt warm. What she'd done less than an hour ago was somewhat beyond mere _bedding_. But she couldn't let herself think about it.

“Duty calls us all,” she said flatly. “My own duty just as much as his. I have more faith in him than he does in himself, perhaps – I choose to believe he will return.” She eyed the mug of cider, and Fleurance removed her hand to let the Miqote take it.

“Back when I was still a knight,” the barkeep mused, “they said Wyrmblood was the best Azure since Haldrath himself. That he had pulled off all manner of unlikely rescues and impossible missions...and that he had a heart of stone.” Her mouth quirked a bit. “Though that last was usually said when some fool with more hair than wit had thought to set her sights on him.”

Nightbird's laugh was brittle. “I imagine that such attempts went poorly. He is not a man to be bound by anyone, not even for love.”

Fleurance was silent as Nightbird sipped the cider, but when she had swallowed, the Elezen set her hand on the bard's arm. “I wish I could offer reassurances to you, my friend. But since I cannot, might I join my prayers to yours, that he returns whole and hale?”

“Of course.” Nightbird smiled and patted Fleurance's hand. “More prayers are never unwelcome.”

Marius strode into the Harp in Hand nearly half a bell after Nightbird's arrival. He saw her waiting for him, and came over directly, to sit beside her at the bar. He nodded at Fleurance and received a mug of ale, and drank a long swallow of it. Nightbird waited, patiently.

At last the man spoke. “A wandering minstrel hears much,” he began. “Much and more, as folk gossip around him without a care.”

Nightbird sipped her cider. He was being obscure again. Something had him upset. Whether it would be something to upset _her_ was another matter.

“The heretics stir, a hive without its queen bee,” he continued. “But the absence of their Lady is not what concerns me. Someone's inciting trouble.”

“Money has been moving,” she nodded. “I tried to look into it, with no luck. And I'm sure you noticed already the city's temper is less than cheerful.”

“It's someone inside the Vault.”

She set her mug down and faced him fully. “Excuse me?”

“Someone within the Holy See, someone at a high level – perhaps the highest levels of power – is orchestrating some kind of incident. At the very least, they are funding whoever is directly instigating the nastier rumors and the violence in the lower levels of the city.”

“And at worst?”

“At worst, these scuffles among those they deem to be scum are only the beginning of something much larger. Much bloodier.”

“Why would they do this – no, why would they do this _now?_ The Horde is practically hovering outside the walls. The entire city might be razed to the ground if the population does not prepare to defend it.”

“I doubt that not, but I cannot be certain as to their motivations.” Marius frowned into his ale, and then drank another big swallow. “Too much depends on just who is at the apex of this pyramid of lies. If...” He clamped his mouth shut for a moment, and shook his head. “Best that I not speculate. Keep your eyes and ears open, Kevala. Things are going to get very ugly here – I predict they will do so the minute that the Azure Dragoon leaves the city again.”

“He is already gone,” Nightbird began, and paused when Marius shook his head.

“He was seen haunting the Manufactory early this morning. I expect he's with the Lord Commander by now, reporting.”

She thought about how she had left Estinien – exhausted to the point of passing out, tucked under her blankets. She hoped he was still sleeping; her words to Marius had been more aimed towards keeping the older bard from insisting that she contact the dragoon than anything else. “Perhaps.”

“He goes to fight Nidhogg.”

“I know.” She could only whisper her response. It hurt all over again, to have to hear it and acknowledge it.

Marius looked up from his ale and into her face. His brows furrowed, and then she felt his aether brush across hers. She pushed him away and hardened her own aether into a shell, wrapping her heart away from his prying.

“Not this time,” she told him, aloud. “This is a pain I shall hoard, for the moment.”

“As you wish.” He finished his ale and put three coins on top of the bar.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked him, as she finished her own drink.

“Stay here,” he said. “Runners will be coming by at intervals. You'll know which ones are my messengers, they'll come to the bar and order cider with a drop of honey. All you must do is come sit beside them and comment on their sweet tooth. They'll pass on their information, and be on their way.”

“Normally you're the one spending all day guzzling ale,” she observed.

“This time,” he answered with a dry smile, “I shall be the one going into danger. There are things stirring here that I will not ask any other to face.”

She looked up at him as he stood. “One of these days, Marius, you're going to outfox yourself.”

“And when that day comes,” he gave her a sardonic half-bow, “I will accept my fate with quiet grace and dignity.” His eyes flashed at her as he straightened, an uncanny flicker of glowing silver over green. Then, he turned, and was gone.

Estinien stood beside the Warrior of Light, and eyed the contraption that the two engineers had presented with such obvious pride. Oh, it was attractive enough in its way – elegant curves, a certain austere aesthetic, one might say. But he had never operated any sort of machine before; he did not like to think he might look foolish attempting it now.

Berylla, however, seemed quite comfortable asking even the most obvious of questions. He paid close attention as she coaxed Wedge to explain the various toggles and switches. He was secretly relieved when it transpired that the manacutter was, in fact, absurdly easy to handle. Each of them made short test flights on the spot – incurring the wrath of the nearby stables before they were through making a racket and flying over the heads of the birds, who were quite excited and perturbed by these new and noisy neighbors. The control bar handled in a manner near enough to reins that Estinien felt confident he could manage; the necessary buttons were relatively large and quite clearly marked. He overheard Wedge solemnly informing Berylla, “This last one – with the big orange circle, right – it's only for the worst of emergencies, understand? It's a rocket.”

“A what?” the redhead asked.

Wedge's goggles covered his eyes, so Estinien couldn't be certain that the Lalafellin engineer rolled his eyes, but it rather sounded as if he had. “It will make the manacutter go much, much faster. Once. And I'm not entirely sure it won't blow up, afterwards. So be careful, all right?”

“Oh. Yeah, I'll be careful. I don't think we'll need something like that for this trip.”

Estinien said, “Well then. We are as prepared as we can be. Let us be about it.”

Berylla met his eyes, and he saw there the same determination that had made him trust her at his back in the first place. She nodded once, and the two of them lifted off and eased their vehicles through the western gate. Then, with a roar of engines, they took off, casting themselves into the frigid winds, heading for the top of the world.

It was a long journey, as such things went. Not a silent or boring one – the winds howled around them and there were occasional clouds to avoid, and as they reached the heights of the Mists, bit of rock and debris as well. But it took them a good two hours to get within sight of Nidhogg's Aery.

Two hours in which Estinien's mind went back over the last two days, relentlessly tormenting him.

He had slept in Nightbird's bed, had woken in twilight, and still she had not returned. He had considered remaining – waiting for her – but his conscience had nagged him too much, and at last he had dressed and donned his armor.

He had gone then to Aymeric – finding him not only at home, but expecting Haurchefant to visit. As Estinien had helped his old friend set up their table and cards and wine for another night of poker, he had also reported to Aymeric on all that had transpired – locating Lady Iceheart, traveling through Dravanian lands; the Warrior of Light facing down yet another primal, and their removal of one of the greater dragons in Nidhogg's Horde. He mentioned that they had spoken with Hraesvelgr – but he could not bring himself to lay out all the details of that conversation, instead choosing to merely tell the Lord Commander that their suit for peace had been rejected.

Before Aymeric could press him for any such, Haurchefant had shown up, and the evening had gone on – differently – from then.

The words he had choked out in a drunken fit of sentiment still bothered him. I'm bloody fucking petrified. And I can't afford to be.

Aymeric's attempt to demand that he accompany them, to stand beside them and face Nidhogg, had to have been fueled in part by those words.

Though he suspected that a desire for a certain red-headed warrior might also have played a part in such a suggestion.

As for Leveilleur – Estinien snorted to himself, thinking about how the boy had attempted to stare him down. No, _not_ a boy; a young man, and one head over heels with infatuation for the same red-headed warrior. If the situation had been one speck less dire, he would have laughed and made fun of all three of them. A bedroom farce in the making, they were.

But thinking of that dragged his mind back around to Nightbird once again. Was not his entanglement with her just as ridiculous? Just as impossible, just as foolish, for _the Azure Dragoon_ to have fallen in love.

He could no longer lie about it – to himself at least. He loved Nightbird, loved her with a ferocity that shocked him, loved her in a way that shook him to his bones if he let himself think about it too much. And on this interminably long flight, he had little else to do _but_ think about her...

He remembered their first night together, and how her voice had so enchanted him; remembered how she tasted as he kissed her again and again and again. How lovely she looked, lying before him, wanting and ready and passionate. How tenderly she held him after, how she accepted him without questions, without demands. She had never tried to keep him to herself in any way, she did not cling, she did not cry at him.

She was like an arrow lodged in his chest, and he would not have removed that arrow even if he could. Feeling this way terrified him, tormented him, but he would _not_ give it up.

When the swirling black clouds and ominously whirling rocks of the Aery came into view, he tried to force the thought of her away. It was time. He _must_ focus, or surely he and the Warrior of the Light would both be killed.

*

The second Eye glowed in his hands as he held it aloft, but something was...odd. He _knew_ the Eye: its aether crawled along his veins, it had etched its shape into his soul. Nidhogg's hate had lain closer to him than a lover for years. This second Eye did not belong to the same being.

But before he could concentrate further, he heard a soft thump behind him, and turned to see Berylla slumped to the ground, unconscious.

He tucked the Eye away and hastened to her side. Her pulse was strong, and she breathed normally, as if merely sleeping. He gripped her shoulders and turned her on her back, straightening her limbs from the awkward sprawl in which she had collapsed. She did not respond to his hands on her, did not answer when he tried calling her name. He stood, and paced for a moment, considering.

He had come up with nothing particularly useful in the way of ideas five minutes later, and so his relief was quite sharp when the red-headed warrior opened her eyes. He went to one knee beside her and snapped, “What ails you?”

She seemed not to notice the sharpness of his words, only shaking her head a little as if to clear it, then coughing, and sitting up. “Sometimes,” she groaned, “being what I am really fucking sucks.” She rubbed her temples. “That, Estinien, is what happens to me when the Echo takes me.”

“You fainted.” He couldn't help sounding just a bit accusatory. She shrugged.

“I was being granted a vision. Presumably it requires my soul to leave my body for a time. Don't ask, I don't know why either.”

He wanted to snarl, but settled instead for asking, “And what sort of vision, if I might ask that much?”

Her lips twisted as as she answered him. Her tale of the Knights Twelve and their defeat of Nidhogg almost seemed ludicrous, if he had not already heard some of it before from Hraesvelgr. And the way the knights had chosen to rule Ishgard among themselves – that surprised him not at all, but hearing of the ones who'd opted to have no part in that plan... _that_ was almost as shocking as learning the full truth of this war.

“They took both of the dragon's eyes,” Berylla said slowly, her eyes dark with concern. “But...only one of them made it to Ishgard. Wonder what that's about?”

“I suppose we'll just have to ask,” Estinien told her. “For the eye that I claimed from Nidhogg was not his own.”

“Huh?”

He could almost have laughed at the expression on her face. She was, momentarily, charming to him in her confusion.

“I know well the properties of Nidhogg's Eye, and the feel of his aether,” he explained. “This second Eye that I now carry is _not_ from the same dragon. I suspect it belongs to another great wyrm...”

He got to his feet, groaning a little, and offered the Warrior his hand. “Come, let us quit this accursed place. I want no more to do with Nidhogg's brood this day.”

They had returned to Zenith. Ysayle still knelt there – had she been on her knees for days? Estinien was too tired to act on the concern that flickered through him. Then she rounded on them and cried out, “Will you not allow Hraesvelgr to mourn the death of his kin in peace!?”

His patience, never the best, already thin from his exhaustion, snapped. “Spare us your sanctimonious judgment, ice maiden. We have a _gift_ for the great wyrm...and a mystery that can no longer lie buried.” He approached her, stopping mere inches from her. “Lady Iceheart─the Dragonsong War has all but consumed your life and claimed many of your followers. It is time you learned the truth of its beginning─the _whole_ truth─that we may at last bring this bitter conflict to an end.”

She stepped back a half pace, one hand raised to her chest, eyes wide.

Estinien turned to Berylla. “Sound the horn, Warrior of Light!”

His heart felt as if it had turned to lead, as he watched the white dragon vanish once more into the clouds. _Fury grant me strength. When Aymeric learns of this...grant him wisdom not to act rashly_.

He was deeply afraid, however, that his old friend would not be able to restrain his feelings.

Abruptly he was tired – not only physically weary, but rather tired of everything to do with dragons. The war, the Eye, the bitter histories – the true and the false alike – it was all more than he wished to deal with. He had fondly thought that killing Nidhogg would be the end of it. How wrong he had been.

Berylla, too, watched the skies, and a tear glittered on her pale cheek for a moment. Ysayle, by comparison, was strangely serene, like a statue presiding over a cemetery: her grief muted, brought to silence by revelations she could never have imagined, and likely would never have craved had she had any inkling...

He was not a sentimental man. He was not sure how he could offer either of them comfort – not certain he even wanted to try. And yet...he allowed his words to carry some of the tired sorrow he felt.

“It was my life's goal to slay Nidhogg, but I find there is little joy to be had in its accomplishment.”

Ysayle lowered her face from staring at the sky. “You have rid the world of a hate-filled creature,” she said gently. “And ended a bloody war in so doing.”

“I lost my family to Nidhogg's flames. It was with fury in my heart that I took up the lance. Every blow I struck, I struck in the name of vengeance.” His voice went softer yet as he admitted something he had never before said aloud. “We were not so different, he and I.”

She hung her head. “I will not judge you for your deeds. I have not the right. Too many innocents have perished in the name of my own cause.”

Berylla looked between the two of them, but she said nothing.

Estinien folded his arms. “Yet the tale is incomplete...”

Berylla gave him a questioning look, while Ysayle nodded thoughtfully, at once divining what he meant.

“We are short a great wyrm's eye,” he explained. “Of the pair which once belonged to Nidhogg, only one is known to us – the one I bear. What, then, became of the other?” His voice sharpened. “Why did Nidhogg, who had taken such pains to _prolong_ the Dragonsong War, suddenly decide to hurl his entire army against the walls of Ishgard?”

Abruptly, his link-pearl chimed. He set a hand to his helm. “Lord Commander.”

“Is the battle done, my friend? Are you all right?”

He nodded slightly. “Yes, the deed is done. Nidhogg is slain.”

“Full glad I am to hear it, not least because I now do not have to tell you to abandon your hunt. I request and require your immediate assistance in the city, Azure Dragoon.” The formal words made Estinien's spine straighten. “There is battle inside the city walls and I need your help.”

He snarled. “ _What?_ In the _city_? A battle with whom?!”

“The gates were thrown wide, about an hour ago,” came the terse reply. “Heretics flooded in, and more appear to have been lying in wait in the Brume. There is fire and blood in the streets, Estinien. Come home as fast as you are able.”

Berylla exchanged alarmed looks with Ysayle.

“At once, Lord Commander,” Estinien said. “Hold firm until our return!”

The city was in a shambles as they flew in. Ysayle, perched behind Estinien on his manacutter, uttered a quite unseemly phrase, her fingernails scraping against his armor as her hands tightened with anger. “Set me down near there, please!” She pointed, and he obliged her. In a move nearly worthy of a dragoon, she leaped lightly off the back of the manacutter while they were still a good ten yards above the ground.

The sight of their leader leaping down out of the sky seemed to arrest the attention of all the heretics in the phalanx facing off against a knot of Temple Knights. Even the Knights themselves stared openly. Estinien admitted, it was quite the spectacular entrance, as impressive as any he could have managed.

She spread her arms wide, hands empty and open, and he left her to attempt to calm her people.

He found pockets of trouble everywhere, but did not see any fights severe enough to require his intervention. The Knights were well trained, and every one of his dragoons was performing exactly as they should – reinforcing a group of knights that had gotten outnumbered, diving from rooftops to apprehend a rioter who thought to run from justice, and most of all – he smiled as he saw his own second in command plummet down and snatch a little girl away from a knot of brawling adults before the child was trampled. He felt a flicker of pride in his fellow dragoons as they flawlessly performed the _most_ important among their duties within the city: protecting the civilians.

His eyes flickered as he took the manacutter a little higher and caught a glimmer of fire near the Crozier. His heart began to race. Nightbird. Nightbird was there, was she not? She had said she would be near the Harp in Hand.

There was no conflict of duty, not here and now. Aymeric did not command him in the field in any direct way; he was free to act on his own, especially if citizens were involved. He didn't hesitate. The manacutter roared as he sped for the market area.

Nightbird was very, very glad the Harp was designed the way it was, with a small foyer and a second door after the outer one.

She was standing in that outer doorway, hands empty and eyes roving. The people looting and pillaging in the Crozier were not her concern – but there were some who were mere victims – her ears flickered as she heard a wail of panic. A man was chasing after a pair of children.

She scrambled forward, snatched the smaller child up, and gripped the older child by his wrist, dragging him bodily along with her as she sprinted back to the Harp. She got them inside, almost throwing the little girl to Fleurance before spinning on her heel and slamming her hands into the face of the wiry, weasel faced man who had dared to pursue her. Her teeth bared, she snapped a word of power and her spell summoned a blast of twisting air, flinging splinters and embers into the man's eyes. He staggered back with a yelp. She braced herself on the door jambs and kicked the man, _hard_.

He nearly went flying, and was instantly tackled to the ground by a very angry Temple Knight.

Unfortunately, there was only the one knight...and the wiry man had had friends. Five men – dressed in ragged clothing, but moving together in a way that shouted of training, practice, and coordinated attack, converged on the knight and proceeded to pummel him down onto the pavement. Even once he was down, they made a circle around him and commenced kicking him.

She stood her ground, raising her hands and summoning up the strongest spell she had at her disposal. If she'd brought her bow...but she had not. Damn Marius to the seventh hell! He had told her the mission was just accepting messages, collecting intelligence. Not a bloody damned _hint_ that there was going to be a riot!

She shoved the cold little fear into the back of her mind, that Marius might be in no condition to worry about her or anyone else. He'd said he was going into danger. If he hadn't seen this riot coming, what else might he have been unprepared to handle?

The five men turned towards her, and the one closest to her grinned, seeing only a petite woman in skirts with her hands up as if in supplication.

He took three steps forward, his face full of vicious anticipation, his comrades fanning out and stalking forward a pace behind. She couldn't understand why they were so intent on breaking into the Harp. There was finer drink not fifteen feet away, wholly unguarded; loot of all sorts. There was nothing in the tavern but terrified citizens.

The stab of belated realization went through her like a knife of ice. But it only hardened her resolve. They would not touch a single one of the people huddled under the tables, not without trampling her dead body beneath their feet first. And she had barely begun to show them what a furious Warrior of Light could do at need.

Her spell went off, and pure light swept outward in a sphere, chiming, brilliant enough to make her foes squint – and then the purified aether swatted them, and they could only stand still, stunned.

Even as the holy power burst forth from her, crimson lightning struck the stones before her.

Estinien's lance was already sweeping out in an arc in front of him, before he had even straightened from his landing. The man in front fell to the ground, neck opened. Blood arced along the path of the lance's back swing, splattering the faces of the other four.

Ragged curses and a moment of confusion – and then Estinien roared, and blue flames covered him, his armor, his lance – the four men had one second to realize that they were doomed.

A shrieking noise – Nightbird looked away for an instant, eyes watering from the blast of wind – and then the sound of bodies falling to the stones.

Estinien stood, lance grounded, five dead men at his feet, and turned to face her. His voice was deep, resonant, echoing with power and draconic rage.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, staring at him, her eyes drinking him in. His armor was deep red, stained as with freshly spilled blood. If she had not known him as she did, she would have missed the subtle signs of exhaustion.

Behind him in the street, the looters had not missed the spectacular – and messy – fate of the five thugs. The Crozier was rapidly emptying as folk decided there were better places to be this night.

“I am fine,” she managed, finally. “Thank you for the assistance, Azure Dragoon.”

His free hand shifted, as if he wanted to reach toward her. “You are welcome.” His voice had returned to normal; he seemed to not even notice the change. She decided to say nothing of it herself.

“I should be able to defend these folk for now...” She offered her next words with a hint of uncertainty. “Perhaps you might be available to walk me home, once things are calm?”

He did not hide his smile, and her heart fluttered to see it.

“I shall consider your request,” he told her, but there was a ripple of humor in his voice. Then, he looked up, and leaped. She couldn't help but step out into the street and watch him go.


	15. The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien's manacutter sat like an odd and over sized pigeon on the roof where he had left it. He didn't bother with the thing, not now. He simply passed it by as he leaped back along the path he had taken to get to Nightbird's side. He was glad to have seen her, to have helped her, but he could hear over his link-pearl the calls for more men at the square near the gates. Had Ysayle failed in her attempt to curb the fighting?

So off he went, able to spare no more than a smile for his little bird. He told himself there would be time for her later.

He reached a vantage point overlooking the square and muttered. The heretics were standing down, backing off. The knights, however, were enraged. Haurchefant stood, trying to get the situation under control – Berylla at his shoulder – but the two of them could only do so much. Estinien's eyes narrowed as he saw no fewer than six dragoons zeroing in on the scene – he knew by the way they carried their lances that they meant to cause mayhem, not stop the violence.

_Enough is enough_.

He shot forward and upward, and let out a roar – _demanding_ the attention of his dragoons. By the time he was somersaulting to a landing in the square, the six of them had halted at various points, perching on roofs and chimneys, staring.

The knights paused as well, seeing him.

“Stand down!” he shouted to them.

There was a moment of hesitation – he took his lance in both hands, ostentatiously showing his fellow fighters that he was not accepting anything other than their immediate obedience.

With some grumbling and a great deal of confusion, the knights finally stood down and sheathed their swords.

Lady Iceheart's voice rang out – calling her people together, and calling for them to go home.

Haurchefant shouted orders, sending the knights to other locations, and the square was shortly empty but for himself, the silver knight, and Berylla.

The redhead looked relieved as she put away her axe. Estinien's eyes went to Haurchefant. The man's eyes followed Berylla with undisguised adoration, and the dragoon held in a sigh. What was it about the warrior that had so many men infatuated with her?

He could have expected it from Haurchefant – the man was shameless, after all...

Bah. He had better things to do than puzzle over such nonsense.

“I will bring Ser Aymeric to the manor,” he told Haurchefant. The silver knight waved in acknowledgment, and Estinien turned away, but not before he saw Haurchefant reaching for Berylla. A flash of annoyance went through him like a paper-cut – not that he wished anything to do with that fool of a warrior. But he would have liked to have the luxury of putting his arms around Nightbird...

_Fury take me, I've lost my damned mind entirely_. He leaped for the rooftops and headed for the Congregation. _Mooning over the woman while there's still work to be done!_

Hours had passed. The fires were out, and the folk who had sheltered in the Harp were gone now, gone home – those that still had homes. Though it seemed much of the damage was relatively superficial in this part of the city, Nightbird had already heard plenty about how awful the fires had been in the Brume. Dozens dead, at least a hundred injured...and even now, as the sun set, she could yet hear a handful of people, forlornly wandering just a level or two below the Crozier, their anxious calls echoing upwards, as if riding the smoke that still rose from ruined homes.

She bit back tears at those haunting voices. She could do nothing to help them.

Fleurance set a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. There's some food left, we might as well eat that up, then I can set that last pot to soak.”

The older woman looked ashen with exhaustion, yet she calmly carried on. Nightbird leaned into her for just a moment, accepting the one armed hug from the veteran knight.

“Nightbird.”

She looked up, and saw Estinien standing in the doorway. With a small noise in her throat, she walked toward him, too tired to rush.

He met her half way, and put his arms around her, carefully – he was still in his armor, though he had removed his helm and gauntlets at the door. Fleurance moved off, murmuring, “I'll just get a third bowl, shall I?”

Nightbird rested her forehead on the cool metal of his armor and shut her eyes. His hands caressed her hair, and she didn't even complain when his fingers brushed against her ears. After a moment, she leaned back just a little, to reach up and touch his cheek.

“Welcome home,” she whispered.

The three of them sat together in the Harp's kitchen, silently devouring the last of the stew. Fleurance rose to take away the empty bowls, as Estinien drew water for soaking the stew pot and Nightbird cleaned off the table.

Fleurance was opening her mouth to thank them when there was a noise in the front of the tavern.

Nightbird went to look, and with a gasp she ran to the figure that had just staggered through the door. “Marius?!”

Estinien followed on her heels, and helped her get the man back on his feet and over to a chair. Fleurance went behind the bar and came back with the whiskey bottle. Nightbird's hands moved quickly, assessing wounds and checking vital signs.

“What _happened_ to you?”

“Something...of a minor mishap,” Marius wheezed. He winced a little. “Leave off, Nightbird. I'll be fine.”

“Your ribs are _broken_ ,” she hissed. “You are most emphatically _not fine_ – ”

He set his hand over hers, and once more Estinien caught that strange, uncanny silver shine to his eyes. “Ease my pain if you must. Do no more. Your energies are overtaxed, young lady, and you need rest. _I will be fine_.”

Nightbird's eyes seemed to glaze over for one second – Estinien started to speak – and then Marius was looking right at him.

“Azure Dragoon,” he said, “your friend is in dire danger. You must guard him from that which would strike from above.”

Estinien's mouth tightened, remembering how Aymeric had left Fortemps Manor. “Well I know what danger he flirts with. Rest assured I will watch over him.”

Marius frowned, but then Nightbird's hands lifted from the man's shoulders, and he sighed deeply. “Thank you, my dear. That is much more comfortable.”

“Marius, you look like you fell down from a tower. Your injuries are...”

“I did not fall, I jumped.”

“What!”

Estinien's eyes narrowed. “From which tower?”

“Does it matter?” Marius shrugged, gingerly. “I survived, and the ones pursuing me think I perished.”

“What on earth was so vital that you nearly killed yourself?” Nightbird demanded.

“Nothing less than hunting the truth,” Marius answered. “And find my quarry I did.” He looked back at Estinien. “You, too, have found a truth, I do believe.”

“Aye. A most bitter and unwelcome truth.”

“I know the feeling.” For one moment, the minstrel looked like a very old, very tired man – lines of worry and grief etched themselves deeply around his mouth and eyes, and his shoulders slumped as if under an intolerable weight. “So many hopes, dashed to pieces as I ought to have been. That he would grasp so desperately for power...it is not to be countenanced.”

“Who?” Estinien asked. “Who's grasping?”

Marius shook his head. “You know, dragoon. You just haven't admitted it to yourself. A habit of yours, I suspect.”

Before Estinien could snap at the man, he spoke to Fleurance. “A swallow of that, if you please, madam?”

“Here.” Fleurance handed the bottle over, and Marius took a single mouthful and handed the whiskey back to its owner.

Then, he levered himself to his feet. He swayed for one moment, then seemed to shake himself all over. Estinien's eyes watered strangely – he shook his head to clear his sight – and the minstrel was standing straight and steady, still looking tired but no longer on his last legs.

“Make your plans, and make them well, Azure Dragoon,” he said. “Dare the depths – but ware the heights.”

With those cryptic words, he turned and walked out.

Nightbird sighed deeply. “Well. That's that.”

“What in the name of Halone's frozen fanny was that all about?” Fleurance asked, bewildered.

“Marius has too much of a love of theatrics, from time to time.” The singer sighed again. “We shan't see him for a few weeks, I imagine. I'll probably get a letter in a week with information I didn't know I needed, or some such.”

“An infuriating way to operate,” Estinien said. “How does he expect anything to get done?”

“Sometimes,” Nightbird said, pensively, “I wonder if he's even trying.”

“Well,” Fleurance's voice was wry, “that's all so far above my head that I won't even try to understand. I'm exhausted...”

“And you should rest, my friend.” Nightbird smiled gently. “I can get home, since I have this nice dragoon here to protect me.”

Fleurance snorted. “So you do.” She waved to the both of them, then made shooing motions. “Go on, go. I need to lock up.”

They heeded her, and Estinien put his gauntlets and helm back on. With one final wave goodbye, they walked out into the street.

“No offense,” Nightbird said to Estinien, “but I'd much rather just walk like a normal person, this time.”

He laughed quietly. “Very well.”

Walking through Fortemps Manor rather than coming in through a window was mildly unsettling for Estinien, but they reached Nightbird's room without incident – they barely even saw anyone.

She leaned against the door, head back, sighing.

Estinien went over to the window and removed all his armor. He frowned down at the chest piece for a long moment. The stain of Nidhogg's blood had etched into the blued steel, and no amount of scrubbing would ever take that color away. He had spoken to Berylla almost casually about reforging his armor – but drachenmail took months to craft. He would have to wait until...until...

Until what, exactly? The dread wyrm was dead, but his gut told him that his fight with Nidhogg was not truly over. Not to mention the situation with Aymeric...

“Estinien?”

He looked up from his brooding, and saw Nightbird watching him, brows knitted with concern. He set the chest piece back down, and stripped off the rest of his clothing except for his smalls.

Then he paced over to her, enjoying how her eyes roved over him as he approached.

But to his surprise, she did not embrace him. Instead, she tossed a large towel at him. He caught it, and tilted his head at her.

“Clearly you didn't hear me.” Her smile was impish. “I want a bath, and I want you to come with me.”

He started to turn back for his clothes, and she caught his wrist. “Ah, ah, no. You committed to it, you stay as you are. Just put the towel over the important bits, dragoon. I'm perishing to get clean.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, but she was turning away, grabbing more towels and her white robe. She opened the door, not waiting to see if he had taken her suggestion about the towel, and walked into the hallway.

He slung the towel around his hips, and followed her.

The bathing room was far grander than Estinien expected, given that it was supposedly intended for the use of mere servants. No wooden tubs and harsh brown soap here, as there were at the dragoon barracks and the quarters given to the Temple Knights and their recruits. Instead, here were white tiles on the floor and the walls and even the ceiling; a row of sluices with drains in the floor beneath; shelves full of wrapped bars of soap and towels, even. Positively palatial, and the dragoon wondered for a moment if Fortemps was foolish, or just that wealthy, to provide such facilities for _employees_.

Then he saw the very large tub of the “everlasting” sort – hot water circulated in it constantly, through some mystery he had never comprehended. A similar tub graced a small lodge in Coerthas, Haurchefant's little secret hideaway.

The sight of the steaming water woke every ache he had been trying to ignore. He would not question the Lord Count's wisdom.

Nightbird's sigh of relief echoed off the tiled floor and walls as she stripped down to the skin. Estinien watched with appreciation. His lips curved as he spoke.

“I did not know you had an exhibitionist streak.”

Nightbird smothered a laugh. “No one is likely to be in here this late at night. And we are trying to get _clean_ , you devil.” She picked up a cloth and a bar of white soap.

“Am I so very terrible?” he inquired, as he took off the towel and laid it with the others that Nightbird had brought.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded, her mouth set in a solemn line that was belied by her dancing eyes. “Entirely incorrigible.”

She turned and climbed into the tub – set somewhat above floor level as it was, there were two shallow steps to get in – and sank into the water. Her sigh, this time, was nearly obscene.

Estinien wasted not a moment more, joining her in the tub before she had done more than wet her hair.

“Here,” she said, “I'll scrub your back.”

“This time,” he answered, taking the soap and cloth away from her, “let me take care of you.”

Nightbird was so surprised that she simply stood still and let him have his way. Something had changed with him, something was...softer? No, that wasn't right.

When they had made love last time, she had wrought a kind of connection between the two of them – not a binding, but a melding, taking a tiny fragment of her aether, her self, her soul, and joining it to Estinien's. It wasn't a complete joining – she carried no piece of the dragoon's soul – and perhaps it was a touch gray of her not to have asked first. Certainly Marius would be furious if he knew she'd done such a thing.

Which, of course, was much of why she had blocked Marius from reading her aether.

But it was the only way she could be with her beloved, the only way she could share even a tiny portion of the burden he bore. It was the only way she could be sure she would _know_ when he returned...

They had been too far apart for her to have more than a vague sense of where he was and that he yet lived; that alone had been comfort enough. Now, with him so very close to her, she realized that she could faintly sense his heart, a hint to the feelings that he hid from the world. And there was something more, a sense of acceptance.

_Acceptance_.

Her eyes stung, and she shut them, bending her head, letting Estinien bury his long fingers in her hair and work soap into it. The joy welling up in her was so intense as to be almost painful. But she dared not give voice to it recklessly. He might have accepted her in his heart – but too strong a show of emotion would likely frighten him off for weeks. Her natural tendency to whimsy suggested that dragoons were, after all, a _jumpy_ lot.

“Raise your head, don't want soap in your eyes when I rinse your hair.”

She managed a smile as she obeyed him.

Having washed and rinsed her hair, Estinien took up the soap again, and applied the cloth to it. Then he gently scrubbed her from the shoulders down. He was so familiar with her skin, now, that he could see the bruises – blue against the black – and he took care not to press on them. She seemed to have few injuries; however he could feel how chilled she was. A softer woman might have been shivering long before now, but not his little bird.

She smiled up at him as she lifted her arms, settling her hands on his shoulders. “Who would have thought such a fearsome man could be so gentle?” she murmured.

“Fearsome, am I? Yet you seem quite unafraid.”

“Oh, I am trembling in my very bones.” Laughter rippled through her quiet words.

He swept his palms around from her back, under her arms, to cup her breasts. She sucked in a breath, her eyes half closing even as she let her head tilt back a bit.

“So very sweet,” he breathed. Desire stirred in him, but exhaustion pushed it back, and he sighed inwardly and left off caressing her breasts. Sliding his hands around to her back once more, he leaned in and kissed her, a quiet, slow kiss.

Then he eased back, and murmured, “I think your back is clean, now.”

Nightbird smiled, and took the cloth. “Then let me return the favor.”

While she rinsed the cloth and soaped it again, Estinien went down to one knee – a feat he could manage only because this tub was built to accommodate four men his size.

She smiled sweetly at him, and moved closer. She reached for his hair, and he bent his head for her, letting her do for him as he had done for her. He could not resist the temptation to nuzzle at her breasts, but she only chuckled and continued her careful ministrations.

Once finished with his head, she moved down and cleaned his shoulders, her dainty fingers soothing away the itch and some of the ache. She worked her way down his back, and then scooped water over his shoulders until his skin was rinsed. The soap flowed away, drawn along by whatever process circulated the water, leaving it clean.

He sighed deeply, and put his arms around her for a moment, just resting his cheek against her body. She cradled him in her arms, and he felt her press her lips to the top of his head.

After a moment, Estinien moved away, carefully arranging himself so that he was neck deep in the hot water, his head leaned back against the edge of the tub. Nightbird began to do the same, when he held out his hand toward her.

She took it, and he tugged her close. “Sit on my leg,” he murmured. “You're so short you'll half drown trying to sit against the seats.”

She could have retorted – she had, after all, used this tub before and had not “drowned.” Instead she settled herself on his thigh, with her back against him. She rested her head on his shoulder, turning her face so that her cheek pressed lightly against his collarbone. He put his arms around her, loosely holding her. The warmth of the water, the warmth of him, lulled her, and she let her eyes drift closed.

After a moment, she felt his hands begin to move, simply soothing along her leg at first, stroking her shoulder and her upper arm. When she lifted her arm a bit, he slipped his hand under it, and up, and caressed her breast again.

The chamber was silent except for their breathing, and she heard as well as felt the little hitch, as his breath caught, then quickened slightly. Tired as they both were, she was certain they would not be able to do more than caress and tease, and so she wriggled gently, pressing her breast into his hand. A little pleasure would not frustrate them over-much.

He kneaded her, and she sighed in pleasure. Then, she gasped aloud as the fingers of his other hand slipped up her thigh and sought the curls above her sex. The sound echoed around the room.

“Estinien...” She rolled her head on his shoulder, and he nuzzled her neck.

“Hm?”

“You really are – oh – such a menace,” she muttered. “We should wait until...”

“I think not,” he whispered, and she bit back a cry as he slid his fingers inside of her. “You're right, little bird. I _am_ terrible.”

“Oh, gods,” she whimpered. She couldn't stop herself from bouncing on his thigh, water sloshing between their bodies with her motion. “So very terrible. Shameless, too – ahhh...”

He began to roll her nipple between his fingers, and she lost the thread of what she had been saying. For a few moments she could only breathe, her thoughts drowned out by the thrum of her blood and her rising desire.

“Damn it,” Estinien muttered, his breath hot against her neck. His fingers left her, and she opened her eyes. But then his hands were around her waist and he was lifting her, turning her to face him, taking her mouth with his in a relentless kiss. When he let her ease back to get a breath, he whispered, “Let me hear you, Nightbird. Let me hear you coming.”

He was too tired for this, he ought to be getting out of this tub, drying off, getting into a bed, and sleeping. But touching her was doing things to him, as he probably should have known it would. She was water in the desert, and he the weary traveler.

He slipped his hand between them, fingers slipping into that sweet, slick heat, thumb massaging the pearl of her clitoris. She was moaning, biting her lip as she tried to keep quiet, and the sight of it made him grin. His other hand spread across her back, supporting her as she leaned back, shifting so that she could ride his fingers. Her sex trembled already, and her breasts jounced as she panted for breath. Estinien lowered his head to kiss the dark roses of her nipples, and she uttered a tiny mewl of lust even as her walls rippled.

“That's right, my little bird, my sweet,” he told her, flickering his tongue over her skin. “Chase it, come for me...”

Her hands clenched on his shoulders, her thighs flexed, and she curled inward until her forehead rested on his chest. She ground her sex against his hand, and he fucked her with his fingers, giving her exactly what she needed.

She began to sigh, a rhythmic series of little breathy cries, muffled against his flesh. “Ah – _ah_ – _ah, Estinien!_ ” He felt it in her thighs first, the sudden tension as her orgasm swiftly approached.

He nuzzled her cheek, and when she tilted her head for him he took her mouth with his, driving his tongue in and out of her mouth as relentlessly as he slid his fingers in and out of her sex. As she began to come, he swallowed her cries, greedy for them, for the tightening around his fingers, the clutch of her arms around his neck, all of her...

_Mine, mine_ , _**mine!**_

Nightbird's breath stopped, her body went stiff, and she would have cried out if her mouth had not been covered by Estinien's; she would have fallen back if he had not held her so very tight.

She felt his exultation, almost _heard_ him, how he reveled in her pleasure, how he named her as his own, the bond she had made between them resonating, though only in one direction.

She went limp as the orgasm let her go, feeling weightless, boneless, and utterly spent. Estinien held her easily against him, and murmured into her hair, something she couldn't make out through the haze of pleasure and the thunder of her own pulse.

Without complaint, he stood up in the tub, shifting her in his arms so that he could carry her. He moved carefully, and with a tenderness that would have brought tears to her eyes (if she'd the energy for tears), he dried her hair and her body, and wrapped her robe around her, all without completely letting her go at any point. He dragged a towel over his head, just enough to keep his hair from dripping everywhere, and then lifted her once more, and carried her out of the bathing chamber and down the hall back to her room.

Part of her wanted to laugh or blush or remonstrate – he was walking down this hallway _naked!_ – but she couldn't even open her eyes fully. They reached her room without seeing anyone, and she thanked the Twelve for it. _She_ would have been mortified if someone had caught Estinien strutting about nude, even if the dragoon had no shame.

He brought her to her bed, turned down the covers, and laid her on the mattress. Then he stepped back and at last began to dry off thoroughly. She watched, drinking in the sight of him, the flex and glide of his muscles, the lean spare lines of him. She wondered how she would ever survive loving him. He was so mysterious and marvelous to her; unpredictable and astonishing and sometimes infuriating and so very capable of destroying her heart.

He climbed into bed with her, and covered them both. She found just enough energy to turn and snuggle into him. In her heart, she whispered a little prayer, that she might one day be able to tell him aloud just how much she loved him.

Estinien held her close, and waited for her to fall asleep. When her breathing was slow and steady, he whispered into her hair the words he was not yet ready to say aloud in her waking presence.

“I love you, little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very basic bit of information about The Tower (yes, I am a touch lazy, this is taken from the Wikipedia article):
> 
> The Tower is sometimes interpreted as meaning danger, crisis, sudden change, destruction, higher learning, and liberation. In the Rider-Waite deck, the top of The Tower is a crown, which symbolizes materialistic thought being bought cheap.


	16. Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make it count.

Estinien's snoring woke her.

Nightbird lifted her head slightly, to stare at her lover. He was lying on his back, and the pillow had gone missing somehow or other; his head lay on the mattress, and his mouth had fallen open.

It wasn't a loud snore. But it was one of the most awful snores she had ever heard in her life.

She poked him in the shoulder, and the racket stopped as he woke, and grumbled. “Wha – ?”

“Either turn on your side,” she yawned, “or shoo.”

He regarded her, sleepy and a little miffed. “Why?”

“You snore.” Her eyes were already drifting shut again.

“I do not.”

One eye opened, and her ear twitched. “You were snoring just now.”

“I don't snore.”

“I'm not going to argue with you. I just want – oh – I just want some more sleep...”

“Hmph.”

He let her close her eyes. Then, he turned over, and fished for the pillow that he had knocked to the floor. Settling the pillow back under his head, he lay so that he faced her.

They had come back from their bathing only an hour or two before dawn. Judging by the square of light on the wall, it was late morning now. No more than six hours of rest, then.

He watched Nightbird sleep for a moment, and decided he needed more sleep. He had done what needed doing, and he had earned a little rest, surely. They were in the perfect place, too, to hear any news of Aymeric; he had no doubt someone would be sent to fetch Nightbird if there were any major developments.

And anyway, his eyes and his limbs were still heavy with fatigue. No point trying to leap about the city in this condition. Two or three more hours wouldn't hurt anything.

The messenger came in the afternoon.

The two of them had only just gotten dressed, when there was a tap on her door. She went to the door and opened it. Whatever was said, it was too quiet for Estinien to make out the words, but Nightbird nodded and stepped back, closing the door. When she turned to him, he knew from her expression that there was news.

And it wasn't good.

“We are wanted at the Forgotten Knight. I think perhaps we should take your usual road.”

He nodded, and slipped his helm on as she opened the window. She climbed up and into his arms, and he held her waist tight as he leaped.

Lucia was pacing. Her face was grim, and judging by the stances of the handful of Temple Knights standing a few yards away, things were very bad indeed.

Berylla was standing near the fountain, arms crossed, Alphinaud to her right and Haurchefant to her left. The silver knight nodded to Estinien, and then to Nightbird, but didn't speak. Lucia looked up the moment Estinien stepped forward to join the little group, and she halted in her pacing.

“Ser Aymeric has been arrested,” she said to the dragoon. “We are going in to fetch him.”

He nodded. “I assume you have a plan.”

“I do.” The blond knight's eyes flickered to Berylla and back to Estinien. He could see the pinch of worry – no, fear – at the edges of her eyes, the distrust in her glance at the red-headed warrior. But her voice was calm and steady as ever as she raised her voice to address them all.

“Hearken to me, everyone! We have two objectives: rescue Ser Aymeric and apprehend the archbishop. We will therefore divide our forces into two parties.” She pointed. “Lord Haurchefant, Estinien, Master Alphinaud, and I will make ready to breach the underground jail and search for the lord commander. We will not move, however, until the second party has entered the Vault.”

She turned to face Berylla squarely. “I speak of your party, Warrior of Light. For this plan to succeed, you will need to fight your way into the highest levels of the Vault, even unto the archbishop's private chambers. When the Heavens' Ward realize what you intend, they will fly to their master's side, leaving only a token force to guard the jail.”

Berylla nodded once – as usual, not a word of complaint, not a breath of doubt; she accepted Lucia's tactics without question. She didn't even inquire as to how she, alone, was to penetrate into the heavily guarded inner chambers of the seat of Ishgardian power.

“Temple Knights loyal to our cause have already secured the entrance to the Vault,” Lucia continued. “Once you are within, they will signal to us. If all goes to plan, we shall rejoin you with Ser Aymeric and confront the archbishop together.”

She glanced around at them all. “Is everyone clear as to their duties? Then let us do what must needs be done!”

Berylla strode away, her long strides forcing the Temple Knights beside her to jog in order to keep up. She hadn't glanced around at anyone, hadn't even spoken to Alphinaud or Tataru. Long familiar with the signs of rage in anyone – man or dragon – Estinien recognized the fury in her step. For one moment, he felt a little sorry for whatever fools dared to step into her path within the Vault. The floors would be painted with blood before she was done.

Nightbird stepped up to Lucia. “I too shall join you. I am a healer, and you will need more than just Alphinaud for this.”

Lucia eyed the Miqote. “You shall obey orders instantly,” she answered, “and you shall not fling yourself needlessly into the fray. Understood?”

“Aye, commander.”

Satisfied, Lucia nodded once and turned to give curt orders to the lone Temple Knight who remained. Estinien frowned down at her. “Why?”

“As I said. There will be need for more than one healer.” She stepped over to Alphinaud.

Alphinaud gave Nightbird an odd look. “You never mentioned to me such skills...”

“It was not necessary to mention it until now.” She lifted one shoulder. “After all, you have had no need of my martial abilities.”

“And we will certainly need your support now,” Haurchefant nodded. “This is like to be no easy task.”

“Aye.” Estinien joined them. “Lucia is ready to move. Come.”

Shouts echoed from inside the Vault, but at the eastern corner, the door stood open, and all within the hallway beyond was silent. The night air outside, where they had assembled, was sweet; moonlight poured down on the area. But the eastern face of the building was cast in deep shadow, and the corridor they faced seemed darker still.

Lucia led the way, with Haurchefant and Estinien just behind her. Alphinaud and Nightbird brought up the rear. Pockets of fighting blocked their way, and the three fighters cut down their enemies without hesitation.

They proceeded quickly to the small room that let into the jail itself.

Two Temple Knights stood in the anteroom; the jailer was nowhere to be seen. “Ser Charibert was the last to leave,” the knight on the right reported. “The Ward are now all within the Vault proper, commander. Our men are sweeping the other areas of the jail now.”

Lucia nodded, and gestured; the knight on the left handed her a ring of keys. The first knight opened the gate and held it open while the five of them walked through.

The hallway seemed darker and longer than it had before. Nightbird's ears flattened and her tail brushed out. Estinien glanced back at her, and his mouth tightened.

“The farthest one,” she murmured. “I can...” She swallowed, old fear stirring in her bones. “I can hear him.”

She could also smell blood, and pain. She clamped down on the memories, on the terror, and focused hard on the comforting solidity of the people around her. No ghosts here, no men with whips or branding irons. This was not her childhood.

Estinien smelled the blood, but more than that he could smell the fear rolling off of Nightbird. Something in here had her terrified. He could see it, when he glanced at her – tail down and puffed out, ears flat, eyes wide – too wide.

But she gave no other outward hint, and the others did not notice anything amiss.

They moved to the end of the corridor and the cells farthest from the gate. Lucia lifted the key ring and quickly sorted through the clinking bits of iron. With a clank and a loud click, she unlocked the door.

Alphinaud and Nightbird moved forward together as soon as the door opened.

Ser Aymeric leaned against the corner, propped up on the wooden bench, holding his arm. His ornate coat was missing, leaving him in a blue shirt and black pants. His hair and his shirt were wet – soaked through – and blood spattered the torn sleeve on the side he was holding.

The two of them went to his side and began their work.

“Lucia...?” Aymeric coughed a little, his voice ragged. “What have you done?”

“We're rescuing you, idiot,” Estinien snapped.

“My father...”

“Berylla is on her way to apprehend Thordan,” Lucia said, her tone crisp. “I think you can agree that he must be confronted and removed from power. As you said,” her voice lowered, “he has shown his true colors.”

Aymeric's eyes closed. “He has.” The grief in his voice made Nightbird twitch.

His injuries were far from mild. Someone had very nearly broken his elbow, two of his fingers were broken, and he had been most certainly subjected to some form of near-drowning, to judge by the way his breath rattled in his chest and the slightly sour smell of sick on his breath. Torture.

Her tail lashed twice as she recognized another scent beneath the blood and pain. Someone had truly _enjoyed_ his work in harming the Lord Commander. Her stomach turned.

Alphinaud's hiss drew her attention, and she flinched as the scholar uncovered the mark on Aymeric's upper arm. A burn mark.

She stared at it for one moment, nightmarish memories crowding her mind, before recognizing that it was shaped like a hand print. “What did they do to you?” she murmured.

“Charibert is fond of fire,” Aymeric answered. “A warm greeting, he called it.”

“Bastard,” muttered Estinien.

Moving with care, Alphinaud set a prepared pad of cloth – a kind of poultice often used by Ishgardian field doctors – over the burn wound. Nightbird took a roll of soft bandage and covered the poultice, binding it in place. Then, both of them concentrated – Nightbird on his lungs and Alphinaud on his arm – and as their aether coalesced into spells that sank healing into the Lord Commander's flesh, Aymeric sighed slowly.

“You will require at least a week to recover from these injuries,” Alphinaud began, but Aymeric shook his head.

“I will rest later. Right now, I must at least try to speak with my father. I must ask him _why_.”

Nightbird hung back when they reached the top. Haurchefant, Lucia, Estinien, and Aymeric marched forward, all of them intent on confronting the archbishop.

Alphinaud's brows drew together when Nightbird stopped. “Are you well?”

“Not...I will be. I think I need some air.”

She kept her eyes on the sky. Dawn was breaking, and the clouds were painted in all the shades of hope and new beginnings – gold and blue and more – with only a hint of shadows. It was beautiful.

He turned, and stood with her. “You looked very upset, below. It wasn't just Aymeric's injuries. Was it?”

“No.” She rubbed her temples. “But there is no need to worry.”

“If you do not object to my staying here...? I cannot say that I have much comfort to offer, but it seems to me you ought not be alone just now.”

“You are kind to offer. I will not disagree with your assessment.”

They both watched the dawn for a few minutes. They could hear Aymeric calling out to his father, but both of them paid little heed. There was little they could do, now; Berylla had fought the Heavens' Ward to a standstill.

Through the open doors, they heard a shout. Both of them looked up, and then they ran for the final set of stairs.

Haurchefant lay on the ground. His shield lay a distance away, smoking and glowing, a hole ripped through it.

Aymeric held the silver knight, and Berylla knelt near Haurchefant's head. Soft words, whipped away by the wind before Nightbird could make them out – and then, a small smile appeared on Haurchefant's face.

And then he was gone.

Nightbird stared at the warrior, and watched Berylla's heart breaking.

Others came, and took the body away. Lucia carried the shield. Only Berylla remained, as the sun rose in glory and washed over the high parapet. Nightbird lurked near the door, and watched the warrior with worried eyes. Estinien came up behind her, and set his hand on her shoulder. “Little bird, come away.”

She turned her head and gazed up at him. “Someone needs to deal with Berylla.”

He noticed the warrior then, sitting slumped in the same place she had been since they took Haurchefant away, staring at the blood on the stones. Her face was blank, eyes glassy.

Shock, Nightbird was certain Berylla was in shock. But there was nothing she could do, not without violating the promise she had made to Marius.

“Estinien...” She tried to keep her voice steady, “if she should jump...”

The dragoon growled in irritation. “Damn sentimental idiot.” He strode forward, and grabbed Berylla by the arm. They were nearly of a height, but she did not resist him. He hauled her up to her feet. “Move,” he ordered, and she walked beside him, eyes still far away.

She didn't glance at Nightbird as the two of them passed the singer; it was obvious she was seeing nothing except perhaps the ground in front of her. She stumbled a little at the top of the steps, and Estinien yanked her back up without a word, without kindness.

Nightbird followed them, silently, to House Fortemps.

She did not go into the sitting room; the door was open, and she lingered near, listening.

She heard the words spoken, and watched in dismay as Berylla ran back out of the house. She stepped into the sitting room then, and set her hand on Tataru's shoulder. “Someone needs to go with her,” she said quietly. Two servants were helping Count Edmont to his feet, guiding him out of the room, to grieve in privacy.

“But – Ser Aymeric – ”

“Tataru, I'm truly concerned for her. Please. If nothing else try to get her to an inn room.”

The Lalafellin woman nodded, eyes damp, and made her way outside.

Estinien's jaw was clenched hard. Nightbird surveyed the room – the other two sons seemed to be leaning on each other for support, young Honoroit standing by, ready to help if he could.

But Alphinaud stood alone, staring at the door through which the Count had vanished, and his eyes were haunted. Nightbird went to him, and touched his arm.

He looked at her, and she patted him. “You should likely get some rest,” she suggested. “Or at least find something you can think about that is not...this. For a time.”

He shook his head, and she tried again. “I can walk you to your room. You really ought to lie down for a few minutes. We have all had a very long night.”

He went with her, when she moved away. Estinien followed behind the two of them, silent and seething.

In front of his door, he paused after opening it. He looked at Nightbird. His eyes were red rimmed. “When all others had forsaken us, Lord Haurchefant took us in. Our beacon of hope in a world of darkness.”

She set a hand on his shoulder. She had barely known Haurchefant, but she sympathized with the young man, and with Berylla.

Alphinaud's voice dropped to a murmur. “He did his utmost to raise our spirits, so that we might face our troubles with courage. With conviction.” He put one hand up to his face, covering his eyes, his other hand making a fist at his side. “So that we might face them as...as _knights_...”

Estinien's hand rested on the young scholar's other shoulder. “Aye,” the dragoon said, his voice rough. “As knights. Nightbird's right. Lie down, rest. There will be plenty to be done soon enough. Collect yourself, Leveilleur. Aymeric will have need of you.”

“Yes...yes, you are right.” Alphinaud sniffled, and stepped away from them, his expression vague, his words beginning to slur. He closed his door softly, and Nightbird heard the lock click.

She looked up at Estinien. “Shall we take our own advice?”

Estinien was silent as they walked along the quiet halls. Almost everyone in the manor was in the main kitchen; word had spread very fast, and even just passing by, both of them could hear sniffles and some sobbing. Haurchefant had been well liked, even loved, by every member of the household. Nightbird didn't need to look at the dragoon, or even pay attention to her aether link with him, to know that Estinien had no desire to be around anyone else right now.

She let them into her room, and locked the door. The window remained open from their hasty departure hours ago, and the room was chilly. Estinien didn't seem to notice at all, peeling out of his armor with quick, sharp motions, standing in front of the open window in what had somehow become “his” place. Nightbird simply watched him, doing no more than taking off her shoes.

He stripped off his shirt, and then leaped up onto the windowsill, wearing nothing but his pants.

She held her breath. There was a tension in the lines of his back, in the way he held himself. She had no fear that he would fling himself out into the abyss; he was not a man for such gestures. Instead, she worried that he might leave – run away from here, from her, and grieve alone. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she was certain that such was his habit. To let no one see him hurt.

But after a few minutes, he sighed, and came back inside, reaching out and closing the shutters and then the window, firmly latching it shut, plunging the room into twilight dimness.

Nightbird could still see him – Miqote eyes being what they were – and he walked across the room to her with such sureness that she knew he could see in the dark as well as she could.

He stopped in front of her, and cupped her face.

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Are you?”

He shook his head and didn't answer.

Nightbird leaned forward and pressed herself to him. His chest, beneath her cheek, was yet warm, despite his sitting in a cold breeze. Her eyes ached, but she was too tired to weep.

“You're cold,” he said. “Come on, let us get you into bed.”

She let him lead her, let him help her undress, climbed into the bed. He asked her nothing, and she did not speak.

Her thoughts were chaotic, swirling with worry and a distant sort of grief. She would miss Haurchefant; he had been a charming man and a kind one. She had not been his particular friend, really they had been more like acquaintances than friends.

But he had meant so much to Berylla, to Alphinaud...how much more had he meant to Estinien?

They were lying beside each other now – she still in her shift and smalls, he still in his pants. He was reaching to tug the blanket up when she spoke.

“How long did you know him?”

He paused, then finished pulling the blanket over them. He lay back, his hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling; she turned on her side to watch him.

“Only ten years or so.” His lips quirked a little. “Haurchefant was knighted before either Aymeric or I were granted our spurs. Still, he did not let that stop him from associating with Aymeric a great deal.”

“And you.”

“Only because I was in the vicinity,” Estinien's chuckle was brief, “only because Haurchefant always insisted on dragging me along with them into their parties, their conversations, their adventures.”

“He cared for you. Very much.”

“He cared for everyone.” Estinien shrugged. “Throwing himself in the path of danger was some kind of life long habit of his. Do you know why he was knighted? Despite being a bastard?”

Nightbird pursed her lips. “Forgive me if this sounds unkind, but I assumed his father arranged it.”

“Ha,” Estinien grinned a little. “As a matter of fact, no. One cannot buy one's way into the Temple Knights. Francel de Haillenarte was kidnapped; Haurchefant, damn fool that he was, chased after them and saved the boy. Threw himself in the path of an arrow, or so the story goes.”

“Foolish, but obviously successful,” she murmured. “And appreciated. Lord Francel still speaks well of Haurchefant...”

“As well he might. That was only the first time Haurchefant saved his hide.” Estinien eyed her, and then told her, “Haurchefant also made his way into Francel's bed, not that long ago.”

“Yes, I had heard,” she said, and Estinien looked disappointed. She chuckled. “Did you expect me to be shocked, sir dragoon?”

“Maybe a little surprised at least.”

“Everyone knew Haurchefant was a flirt. One might even say, a tomcat.” She smiled. “But he was ever a gentleman, for which I was grateful. One nobleman who can't take a hint is far more than enough.”

“What? Is Tibernus still bothering you?”

“Not recently, and I suspect not ever again, if Count Edmont has his way...”

She told him then, of the astonishing conversation she had had with the lord of the manor.

“Adopted you, did he?” Estinien's voice was amused, though his expression was thoughtful. “At this rate he might end up with more children than Haillenarte.”

Nightbird smiled briefly, then asked, “Why did Haurchefant not take a post inside the city? It seems that he would have been happy to remain close to his friends and his family.”

“He would have preferred it, perhaps,” Estinien stretched a little, “but it wasn't possible. Not when the Heavens' Ward themselves were determined to call him a worthless bastard and do all they could to make his life difficult.” He grimaced. “Probably because they knew good and damned well they would have had him dogging their heels at all times. He almost caught Charibert, once...” He closed his lips and slanted his gaze at his lover. “Well. Better not to speak of that. Not now. Suffice it to say, he was a thorn in the side of at least half the Ward, and it was they who persuaded the then-commander of the Temple Knights that Haurchefant deserved the illustrious title of commander...of Camp Dragonhead. Mind you,” he snorted, “that was _before_ the snows closed us in. But even before that, Dragonhead was the ass end of Ishgardian lands, too close by far to various so-called bad influences.”

“Bad influences?” Nightbird raised one eyebrow. “Such as outsiders and adventurers?”

“Of course.” Estinien shook his head a little. “After the posting, Haurchefant visited whenever he could manage it...”

He trailed off, and Nightbird leaned up a little, resting her head on her hand. “The three of you were close, then.”

“Very.” He glanced at her. “Don't worry about me, little bird. If anything, perhaps worry about Aymeric. He and Haurchefant were closer...” The dragoon's voice trailed off.

Estinien's thoughts turned inward, to the last night he had spent at Aymeric's house. Cards, and wine, and all the little habits the three of them had shared.

 _Habits that will never be the same. Damn it, Haurchefant_.

“I hope they've dosed Aymeric thoroughly,” he murmured. “He does not need to dwell on this.”

“Neither do you, I should think.”

He turned his head to look at her. “I told you, I'm fine. Just need to rest.”

He watched her, hoping she would not keep trying to talk to him about Haurchefant. Her ears were canted – one up, one down – and he wondered what that meant. But she let it go, and just shook her head.

She leaned up on her arms, and kissed him once. Then she rubbed her cheek against his, a soft caress, and cuddled up, turning so that her back was against his ribs and her head was pillowed on his arm. He turned slightly, curling around her, tucking his other arm around her waist. He buried his nose in her hair and let out a long breath.

He would grieve for his friend – but not now. Not yet. The city would need him – would need every single man and woman in the Temple Knights and the Knights Dragoon alike – and he was unlikely to get any sleep once Aymeric was allowed out of the infirmary. He expected there would be a hunt for the archbishop. After this outrage, he was more than willing to kill the old man himself if need be...but that, too, would keep until tomorrow at the very least.

He was certain she had dropped off to sleep, when she spoke.

“What will happen, now? I have to assume Ser Aymeric will want to pursue the archbishop...”

“Almost certainly.” Estinien considered. “In the absence of the archbishop, the duty of leading Ishgard falls to the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights...”

Nightbird's ears flicked. “What? To _Aymeric?_ ”

“Aye. If we had not retrieved him – or if he had not survived the ordeal – then it would have fallen...hm. Probably to Lucia, or myself.” He shuddered at that. “Better that Aymeric take on that responsibility.”

“What will you do?”

“Whatever he needs me to do.” Estinien paused. “Likely, helping to direct our forces within the city and keep order as best we can. There will be much chaos and confusion, I am certain of that much. Folk were already unsettled. The archbishop vanishing will cause a panic.”

“Aymeric will tell them all what happened...or will he?”

“If he deems it wise to do so now, he will. I suspect...” Estinien's laugh was wry. “I suspect he might decided to tell them all everything, right away, wisdom notwithstanding. He has bled for this truth now.”

“Many more will bleed for it, and because of it...” Nightbird's voice trembled. She wanted to tell him to be careful, but she knew there was no point. He would do his duty, even if it killed him. She could not love him less for it, but it frightened her to her bones to think of him murdered by his own people.

“Rest,” he murmured. “Let the world worry about itself for the moment. I expect this will be our last good rest for a while. Make it count, love.”

She nodded, and lay still in his arms. He let his eyes close, and let the scent of her soothe him into sleep.


	17. Revenge (Has Nothing To Do With It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien wants one more night of comfort before he must leave.  
> Nightbird wants...a little something more.

A week had passed since Haurchefant died.

First, there had been the private funeral, attended only by the Count, his sons, Ser Aymeric, and Estinien. The entire affair had taken perhaps six hours, every detail of it kept very quiet.

Nightbird had spent those hours comforting Honoroit, who had taken the entire situation quite hard. The young man had aided Emmanellain as best he could, but being leaned on so heavily, when he was as shocked as the rest of them...even for so resilient a lad as he was, it had not been easy.

Berylla and Alphinaud had departed the city for a day or two, in the company of Cid Garlond – working towards the pursuit of the archbishop, just as Estinien had predicted. But no sooner had they returned home than they collected Tataru and vanished once more – Alphinaud leaving her only a hurried note that they had received word about one of their missing comrades in the Scions. He hadn't even said which one.

They came back two days later, and she had only learned that fact because of Ser Aymeric.

That morning, Berylla had collapsed – literally at Ser Aymeric's feet – and he had sent for Nightbird. The warrior did not require much healing, but it seemed Aymeric did not entirely trust the word of his own doctor on the matter. She'd spent a few minutes reassuring the lord commander, while he sat on his couch, Berylla asleep beside him. The warrior hadn't even twitched, she was so exhausted.

The following days had been surprisingly quiet in the city.

Ishgard's people were nervous, but violence had not yet erupted. This was a different sort of tension that what had haunted the streets before. Then, the threat had been clear – dragons, on the other side of the walls, were an easy enemy for the people of Ishgard to visualize and prepare themselves for. The “invasion” of heretics had merely triggered the hostility that was already primed and ready to be unleashed.

But now...now, the enemy was not so easily understood. Ser Aymeric had indeed made public some of those painful truths that had been uncovered. All of Ishgard was split over the matter – some folk wanted the church discredited, its priests – most especially its inquisitors – punished. The folk of the Brume wanted to blame the nobility. Most of the nobility wanted to ensure that their own families would be protected, and did not seem to care very much how that protection was accomplished.

Almost two thirds of the city, however, was united in one thing: that Ser Aymeric take over as the leader of the city. Many of them began calling for his immediate appointment as the new archbishop.

He had made it very clear that he would not even consider such a thing until after the current archbishop was captured and brought to justice for his crimes. But the calls only intensified with each passing day. The Lord Commander was buried in work – when he was not in meetings with agitated noblemen, he was still responsible for the overall management of the city's defenses and the increasing need for knights to patrol every district.

Estinien too was working nonstop. She had not seen him since the morning after the events of the Vault. The two of them had slept the clock round, waking just enough to deal with urgent needs of their bodies such as thirst and then collapsing back into the bed. When dawn came once more, Estinien had left without even kissing her awake.

But she had very little time in which to miss him. The _public_ memorial for Haurchefant was being planned, and the Count wanted Nightbird to handle all the necessary music. Ser Aymeric had arranged matters, and now she was extremely busy for much of every day. This day, in fact, she had spent at the Vault, rehearsing with the great choir there – something she could only have faintly hoped for, a month ago. There was a bittersweet taste to the accomplishment now.

When she at last returned to the manor, she heard from Penelope that Berylla was home again. She got one of the pages to go fetch Alphinaud, even as she headed for the lower kitchen to eat a late supper.

Alphinaud obliged her and met her there, ready to give her all the details he could about what he and the other Scions had been up to for the last week. Though a good half of what he described sounded far fetched even to her, she accepted his words. He was giddy and exhausted, yet seemed determined to remain “at her disposal,” even if he fell on his face. It took her a little while, but she managed to persuade him to go and rest. Berylla was likely in much the same condition, but she hoped that the warrior would have a bit less youthful enthusiasm and a bit more common sense...

Still, her heart was somewhat lighter as she made her way back to her room at last. Things were not better, nothing was resolved – but it felt as if events were finally on the move again.

She entered the room, and locked her door; before she even turned around, she felt the breeze from her window. She smiled.

“Hello, Estinien.”

Estinien closed the window, and shed his helm and gauntlets. He just gazed at her for a long moment before finally speaking. “It is good to see you again. You have been busy, or so I hear.”

“Haven't we all been busy?” She shrugged. “Nothing much of note has happened, for me. Dare I hope that you have been _very_ bored over the last few days?”

He smiled slightly, but didn't answer. Instead, he began to shed his armor – still crimson as blood – and watched her out of the corner of his eye.

He had been thinking hard over the past week. Haurchefant had given him a piece of advice, before...  
Maybe tonight, he would be able to act on it at last.

Nightbird moved about the room, setting down the bag that held her music and notes, and removing some of her own clothing. Today had been bitterly cold and she had needed the extra layers, walking all the way to and from the Vault as she had. The manor was cool enough yet that she still felt the need for her loose chemise and soft wool trousers, however.

It felt good, to know he was here once more; to know that in spite of the very real troubles going on – he had found time, _made_ time, to come to her.

She reached into her wardrobe, and took out the gift she had gotten for him.

He turned around, and saw Nightbird coming over to him with something in her hands, something gray-blue and folded. She wore only a snow white chemise and tight fitting pants now.

“Hm?”

She held it out to him with a small smile – looking almost shy. “I thought perhaps you would prefer not freezing your nipples off, now that the colder weather is here.”

He took the thing from her, and realized it was a soft dressing-robe, of the sort a nobleman like Aymeric might wear. He shook it out and held it before him for a moment, just looking at it. It was soft and a bit heavy, and it would certainly be comfortable...

He felt his cheeks burning, and cleared his throat a bit.

“Thought you liked seeing my nipples,” he managed at last, trying for sarcasm. Then he slipped the robe on, and she smiled up at him. “...thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek, and then stepped away, easily dodging his hand as he reached for her.

He followed after her a few steps, and then just watched her as she lit a spirit-lantern and fished out from her dresser a pair of stoneware mugs that did not match, as well as a slightly battered tin with faded markings on it.

“What's all this?”

“Just tea,” she answered. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Have you eaten?”

He nodded. “Something warm to drink would not go amiss with me,” he confessed.

They sat on her bed, cross-legged, with their mugs in hand. Their knees just touched.

“The Count is moving me to a suite of rooms, after the memorial.”

“Oh?”

Her ears twitched, then lay flat for a moment. “I sincerely hope he doesn't mean to move me into Haurchefant's rooms.”

“Haurchefant didn't have a suite of rooms here anyway,” Estinien's shrug seemed to do more to reassure her than his words. “He mostly just slept in a guest room if he wasn't staying at Aymeric's place.”

“I see.” And she did. Ser Aymeric had found time to speak with her on more than one occasion, dropping by for fifteen or twenty minutes of an afternoon “just to listen to the music for a little.” But he always spent as much time talking as listening. She had the feeling he was simply in such dire need of an ear that he would have spoken to the statues in the Hoplon if he'd had no other recourse.

Being what she was, he had not had to put into words his grief for Haurchefant; she had a fair idea of just what the two men had been to each other. She wondered if Estinien had found someone to confide in. He certainly had not spoken to Aymeric; the Lord Commander had worried over the dragoon and more than once, in those oddly random conversations.

“Will you be able to find me?” she asked, then laughed softly. “My apologies, that is a silly question, isn't it...you'll likely know which suite I will be in, the day they finally move me.”

He grinned. “I am not as prescient as all that. You can send a note to Ser Handeloup; he handles messages for the Knights Dragoon most of the time.”

She smiled as she finished her tea. “Then I shall do that.”

Estinien set his mug down on the night-stand, and took her mug to set it beside his own.

Then he took her hands in his. “Little bird...”

“Hm?”

He just looked at her for a long moment, his thumbs stroking her hands. The words pressed at his throat, but a cold worm of worry coiled in his belly all of a sudden. At last he managed to speak, his voice taut. “I will have to leave here tomorrow morning. The engineers are fitting Master Garlond's airship with whatever contraption it is – I forget the terms he was flinging about. It is meant to break through the magical barrier surrounding Azys Lla. Once we are through, we will finally hunt down the archbishop.”

Her amber eyes searched his. “You will kill him, won't you?”

“I will kill him,” Estinien nodded, “and every one of his knights as well. They cannot be suffered to live. The power they pursue will only destroy Ishgard.”

“And revenge has nothing to do with it?” Her words were gentle, quiet; her fingers squeezed his.

“...revenge has very little to do with it.” He sighed. “I will not claim that I am not very angry about what they did to Haurchefant. But that is not the primary reason behind my intention to see them all dead.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Oh? And why is that, little bird?” His smile was sardonic. He probably should have expected at least some small amount of concern from her; a mild lecture on not letting revenge consume him was not that surprising.

But once again, she astonished him.

“I'm glad because you're going into this with all your senses – with your whole mind on the goal. I'm glad because I can see that you will fight as strongly as ever you have.”

“Why would you have thought otherwise?”

“Because so many have said that you lost some of your soul to Nidhogg. The rumors kept claiming that being the Azure – simply carrying the Eye – drives men mad after a time. Mind you,” she shook her head and squeezed his hands, “I never believe rumors. But I – I do confess I was a little concerned for you.”

“And what changed your mind?”

Her eyes fixed on his, and he felt as if he might fall into them, and be lost.

“You did. Fighting beside you, and watching you before that, during the riots...” Her smile was slow and sweet and something in it shook him to his core. “I don't think anything you and I have done together was quite so...inspiring.”

“ _Inspiring?_ ” The word burst from him, his laughter brief and shivery and a little nervous.

“Hm, yes,” her eyes twinkled. “You frequently amaze me, sir dragoon – which you know. And you often drive me to distraction – which you also know. But I felt it important to tell you about the inspiring aspects of your character.”

“I am no inspiration,” he scoffed.

Nightbird let go of his hands.

She half rose onto her knees and pressed forward into his space, her hands resting on his knees, and brushed the end of his nose with her own. “Oh, yes you are,” she murmured. She nuzzled the edge of his jaw. “You inspire me to think of things like this,” and she delicately tongued the shell of his ear, making him sit straight up, hissing in surprise and sudden pleasure.

His hands lifted, rubbing her upper arms and pressing her shoulders, but she was still murmuring, her soft lips skimming the tender skin of his neck now, her fangs delicately pressing against his pulse. “You inspire me to taste of you.”

“Little bird,” he muttered, “take care that you do not inspire _me_.”

Her laughter was dark and low and made his skin tingle all over. She tugged the tie of his robe loose and shoved her hand beneath it to drag her nails across his ribs. Even as he twitched at the light touch, her clever fingers found his flat nipple and pinched.

“Ah! Nightbird, damn it – ”

“Hm? Oh, my apologies...” Her voice rippled, utterly devoid of repentance, and her head dipped down. He buried his fingers in her hair as she fastened her mouth over his nipple and suckled at it.

It was too much. He dragged her up to take her mouth with his, and hauled her into his lap, then tipped the both of them back so that she lay on top of him.

Her tail lashed, her hands clutched at his robe, and she laughed into his mouth.

“Feeling inspired, now?” she asked him, when he let go of her lips long enough to breathe.

He growled, and cupped her ass, squeezing hard. She purred and wriggled on top of him, and his cock strained against his pants, drawing a low groan from him.

“I said once,” she muttered, returning her attention to his ear, “that I would not make demands of you. But tonight...” Her breath was hot against his skin. “Tonight, sir dragoon, I would have all of you...every breath, every inch of your skin...everything.”

She sat up a little, then, and reached towards the night-stand, fishing something out of the shallow drawer there.

His eyes widened slightly when he saw the little bottle. Not unlike a certain other bottle that resided in a shallow night-stand drawer in Aymeric's bedroom.

She swallowed as she set it into his hand. “Even _that_ ,” she told him, and he swore he could hear her heart pounding.

He set the bottle on top of the night-stand. “Are you certain?”

“I'm still...” her laugh was nervous, “a little intimidated. But I want – I want to know all the pleasure you can show me, Estinien.”

“Then first,” he said, “let me begin by preparing you...”

He kissed her, a slow, deep kiss, and then rolled her onto her back. He tugged at her pants, and she lifted her hips, helping him to remove both pants and smalls. He tossed the clothes aside, and cupped her sex as he kissed her again. She leaned into him, grinding down against his hand, panting a little already. “Need you,” she whispered.

She wanted to say so much more. To tell him how much she loved him, how much she feared for him, how badly she wanted to be beside him in his hunt, though she knew she could not hope to be of help. Even fighting beside him in the Vault had been edging close to breaking her promise to Marius...

But she did not want to think about any of that. She didn't want to think at all. Not tonight.

She yearned against him, her hands in his hair, her back arching to press closer.

Estinien's heart raced as Nightbird pressed against him. He wasn't sure why she was so fervent tonight, but it set his blood on fire like never before, and not even mostly from the anticipation of introducing her to something she had never experienced. But he moved with care, even this early on. He curled one arm under her neck, supporting his weight on that elbow, so that he could free up his other hand.

He slipped two of his fingers inside of her sex and stroked her gently; tasting of her nipples with lazy little licks and teasing kisses, he smiled every time she gasped for him. By the time he judged she was wet enough for what he wanted to do next, she was panting and just a little sweaty, her hair spread around her head on the pillow like a storm cloud, her eyes blown wide and her mouth swollen from kissing him again and again.

He slid his fingers out of her sex and down...down...

She hissed, and her hips bucked once before she froze in place, tense, her hands clenching on his shoulders.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he murmured. He kissed her forehead and gently rubbed at the tight, hot ring of muscle, working her own fluids into her, his thumb brushing against her clit just enough. She was tiny, but as he had learned, anything but delicate...and now she was relaxing again, breathing hard, her fingers kneading his skin. “That's right,” he crooned. “Don't fight it, just relax, little bird.”

Her teeth were bared as he slipped his index finger against her rear entrance and pressed. The digit sank into tight heat, that shivered and twitched with every bit of movement, and she whimpered.

He kissed her softly when his finger was inside of her to the second knuckle. “You're doing so well,” he reassured her. “So very well...”

“I...Estinien, it's...so...” She swallowed hard. “Please...”

“Please, what?” he whispered, and kissed her neck.

“Don't...don't stop.”

He all but purred, and slipped his finger back a bit. As he gathered up more of her slick and pressed his second finger in alongside the first, her nails bit into his shoulders. “Ah, ah, it's – _agh!_ – it's so – no, it's too much, I _can't_...!”

He kissed her deeply. “Sh.”

Then he moved down her body, and pressed her thighs apart, and up, spreading her wide. He flicked his tongue across her clit and she mewled a little, shuddering. He teased her labia, but did not delve into the delicious heat of her sex – not yet.

His tongue laved her rear, and she yelped a little, hips bucking. He looked up at her, eyes glittering wickedly.

“Set your hands on your legs,” he told her. “Hold yourself open to me, my beauty.”

Panting harshly, she nodded, and obeyed him. Her hands clutched her knees as she stared down at him. She mewled again as he turned his attention once more to her anus.

Her breath hissed through her teeth, a stuttering sibilant accompaniment to his actions. He set his fingers to her skin, spreading her further, opening her to his exploring, intruding tongue. At intervals he would trace his way back up to her sex and trace the rapidly swelling labia, but even then he rubbed and pressed at her rear, never for a moment letting the stimulation there cease.

It took some time, but presently, Nightbird's gasping turned to moans, and then to pleading whimpers. When her hands began to slip down her thighs, creeping towards her sex in her desperate seeking for more, Estinien raised his head and plunged his tongue into her.

She threw her head back and cried out his name, and within just a few savage strokes of his tongue against her walls, she came, messily, juices gushing across his cheeks and down onto her rear end.

“Now...” he eased his fingers against her again, and even as she gasped, helpless in the throes of her orgasm, her body accepted two fingers in her anus without protest.

“ _Estinien!_ ”

“Yes, my little bird, my darling,” he murmured, and set his mouth over her clitoris, gently flicking it with his tongue as he delved further inside of her ass, stretching her with care even as he tormented her.

She moaned and gasped, unable to form coherent words, and when he slipped a third finger into her, she came again. This time her body was stiff and her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He could feel her coming against his mouth and around his fingers and the way her ass clenched down was so very tantalizing to him that he groaned.

He withdrew from her, slowly, and shifted up so that he could kiss her.

“I – I – I never...” Tears ran down her face. “Estinien, I can't...”

“You can,” he told her, smiling softly as he kissed her eyelids. “On your knees, now, my sweet little bird. It will be easier for you that way.”

“Easier...?” She sounded doubtful, but as he sat up and reached for the lubricant, she rolled over, and got onto her knees for him. Her tail fur was bushed out and her rump was slick with her own come.

Estinien applied a generous dollop of the lubricant – a thicker formulation than Aymeric used, but certainly slick enough for the purpose – and stroked it across his length. His cock was so hard it was nearly painful, throbbing with need, but he knew he could not – _would not_ – rush her. So he took another dollop of the lube onto his fingers and worked it against and into her ass, slipping two fingers into her. There was no resistance, now, and no cries of distress from his lover.

But when he set the bottle aside and leaned over her, she shivered, convulsively. “Estinien...”

He kissed her shoulder and then set his hands on her hips. “Lift,” he commanded softly. “Open to me, my darling.”

She whimpered, and shifted her weight. Her cheek was pressed into the mattress and he could see one amber eye rolling a bit, trying to look at him.

He took his cock in his hand, and lined himself up with her anus. As the head of his cock pressed against her, she cried out, softly.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he soothed. “Just relax, my love.”

He set himself against her and began to push, slowly.

Her breathing was rapid and her gasps became high pitched – almost like whistles – as his cock head spread her. He sank inside of her, and as the head passed fully into that tight heat, he groaned.

He waited for a moment, breathing hard himself, and let her body flex and adjust. Nightbird's gasps did not slow, but her legs quivered and she twitched, ever so slightly pressing back against him.

“Please...” she whispered.

Estinien let himself sheathe in her – still moving at a glacial pace, despite the sweat breaking out all over his body, despite the incredible – almost painful – tightness of her. His lust demanded that he take her, hard and fast, but he reined himself in, biting his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood.

But at last, _at last_ , he was fully within her, and she was wailing softly beneath him, her hands clenching on the blanket. She still wore her chemise, and it was damp with her sweat; her hair was wild and tangled and strands of it stuck to her cheek. But she spoke, and though her voice was strangled and distorted, though she yet gasped as if she could not get a full breath, her words were clear.

“Fuck me.”

Estinien growled, low in his chest, and began to thrust.

Excited as he already was, he did not expect to last long – and indeed he could feel his orgasm approaching even as he pulled himself halfway out of her and sank back in. What he had not expected was the way she bucked against him, or the way she quaked around his cock even with that single motion. He curled his arm down, reaching, and placed his fingers against her clit.

Her body clamped down on him so hard that he grunted in surprise, and then everything was a blur of bucking hips and her slick sex against his hand and his cock jerking and spurting as her ass – _so very damned hot, so unbelievably tight_ – milked him. He cried out, even as she shrieked, her face pressed into the mattress to muffle the sound.

He came back to the world, half curled over her back, and still buried inside of her. Nightbird's breathing was still fast and harsh, and as he eased himself out of her – astonished to notice that his cock had barely softened – she cried out, quietly.

He managed to get up and get a cloth, managed to clean himself, and then brought the cloth to her. She lay, belly down, her shoulders shaking.

“Little bird...”

He set the cloth down and sat on the bed, reaching for her. She shivered as he gathered her to him. She put her cheek against his chest, and he felt the hot tears as she wept.

“Oh,” he stroked her hair and cradled her close. “Oh, my love. Did I hurt you, darling?”

“N-n-no.” She sniffled. “Just s-s-so...s-so...intense.” The last sibilant was drawn out as she shuddered all over. “You did this with, with others...?”

“Hm, yes,” he smiled into her hair. “Not frequently.”

“With...” her voice wobbled. “With Haurchefant?”

“Yes.” He saw no reason to lie about it.

“Then he was a lot t-tougher than I thought.”

Estinien could not help it. His shoulders shook, and then he lost the fight, and began to laugh aloud.

Eventually, she was able to move again; he helped her get cleaned up and comfortable, and then lay with her in the bed, just holding her close.

She stroked his chest from time to time, and he let his hand card through her hair, very slowly.

“Nightbird.”

“Hm?”

“I...” He swallowed hard. He should say it. He needed to say it. “I wish to tell you something.”

“I'm listening.”

“You...mean a great deal to me.” Damn it, why was this so difficult? Why did these words stick in his throat?

She shifted, and sat up a little, to look into his face. “I know.”

“Y-you do?” He winced inwardly at how foolish he sounded.

“I do.” She rubbed her cheek against his. “You don't have to say anything you aren't ready to say, Estinien.”

“I...” He shut his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “I want to...”

“Sh,” she soothed him with a kiss. “When you are ready. I will still be here. I promise.”

Then she settled back down, and yawned once. “For now, I am content to wait, and to sleep. You are the most splendid and exhausting lover.”

Estinien kissed her hair, and managed a small chuckle. “Quite the compliment.”

“Good night, my dragoon.”

“Good night, my little bird.”


	18. The Wyrm Awakens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien is not coming home.

_It was dark here, and quiet, and he was very tired._

_He knew what had happened. His body was destroyed, and that crawling worm had stolen away his brother's eye. He was not, however, dead._

_The foolish creature still carried one of his true eyes – the second eye was yet wrapped in some dark still place that had not altered for centuries. But even one eye was enough to sustain his consciousness, even if he was far too weary to make use of it. The damned dragoon was wise enough to keep the Eye from accumulating too much aether._

_His rage was in no wise quieted, his thirst for vengeance still burned as fierce as ever it had. His grief for his fallen sister still pained him as much now as it had the day he had found her mutilated corpse. But for the first time in decades, he found himself in a place where he could hear his siblings, and very faintly, even his father's voice._

_He did not care to listen._

_And so instead he slept. For now._

Azys Lla. A landscape out of nightmare, populated by creatures just as horrible as the place itself. Something in him recoiled even at the gleaming machinery; everything he saw had been created with one purpose: the exploitation of living beings, whether to extract their aether or some other resource.

Never had he thought to feel even a passing breath of pity for dragon-kind. They had murdered his family, hunted his people for generations, they were the terror of every Ishgardian child's nightmares and a scourge upon the earth. Where dragons dwelt, nothing wholesome could live...or so he had believed. Their fruitless journey to parley with Hraesvelgr had rattled that conviction.

He found himself rattled again as he surveyed the grassy, green islet. He saw Berylla moving along one of the watery paths, but he did not send his manacutter to follow her. He did not need to. He knew, by the tugging on his aether, that what he sought did not lie below.

But from here he could see more than just the Warrior of Light. He could see what she was moving towards, as well.

A dragon.

But this dragon was no threat to anyone. He had no notion of how the bindings around her worked, much less why she was so tightly chained. But the Eye resonated, pulsing in answer to the presence of another dragon. Berylla – not attuned to the relic's energies – was oblivious, but Estinien was not.

Because of those energies, he knew that he was gazing upon another of the great dragons – another sister to Nidhogg. Tiamat, the mate of Bahamut, a being not seen for thousands and thousands of years...legends told of her fall to the Allagans, but even those legends were faint, thin with time.

That she still lived did not surprise him.

That she still _grieved_...

He turned his machine away, and made for the great, brooding hulk in the center of Azys Lla. He could not afford to allow his heart to be swayed even a little by pity. Not now, not when he was so very close to finally delivering justice unto the archbishop and his accomplices.

Allagans did not think like _people_. He had, somewhat, known that, but now he understood.

“This is ridiculous,” he growled to himself, and vaulted again from one hexagonal pillar to another. He was too far behind Berylla and the adventurer friends she'd hauled in here – he could only hope to arrive in time to provide some kind of last minute support at best.

He paused beside a glass cylinder as the Eye flared suddenly. He grunted, struggling with the wretched thing as its sullen power surged and bucked within him. Something nearby was agitating the relic, and even though it was not on his person, he could feel its reactions.

He had no time to try looking about, however. The cylinder rattled, and suddenly the glass was moving, lowering, releasing the twisted creature within, and he was forced to defend himself.

Estinien finally reached the threshold – just in time to see Thordan VII, Archbishop of Ishgard, fall onto his hands and knees. Even as he watched, the old man lifted his head to stare at the red haired woman who stood before him, axe still at the ready.

“How can this be?” he rasped. “A millennium of prayer and the Eye's power combined...and still you stand?”

Berylla did not reply, but Thordan's eyes were wide with horror.

“Who – _what_ are you?”

And then the old man died, and dissipated into a cloud of aether that swiftly faded.

Estinien sighed inwardly, and walked over to where the tall warrior stood.

“I had hoped that mine would be the hand to end it,” he began, as she turned her head to look at him. “But knowing you, there was little chance of that.”

He couldn't help but laugh a little at the blush that rose in her cheeks. No wonder Haurchefant had liked her so much.

Then she produced the Eye, and held it out to him, without a flicker of reluctance. He felt a small swell of warm feeling towards her for that. The relic was his to guard, his to protect, his to bear. She had wielded it well – possibly better than he might have done. He told himself he was not at all jealous of how easily she had commanded the cursed thing, and accepted it back from her with only a nod.

They had guessed that Thordan had access to the other Eye, and they had been correct. He looked over at the mighty sword lying on the ground. The red gem in the hilt glinted at him, and abruptly he _knew_.

He walked over, and knelt down. The Eye he had known for years, and now this – its twin. Both were drained of power, having just been drawn on so heavily. He felt an eagerness building within him. To have both Eyes together – to be able to safeguard his city forevermore...

He reached for the gem with his hand and with his will, and _twisted_.

When he lifted his hand, a second Eye like unto the first was balanced on his palm. The two Eyes pulsed in time with each other, as if they were yet attached to a body and a beating heart.

He turned to face Berylla. “All that remains is to take them beyond the reach of man and dragon both. With this task accomplished, my toils shall finally be at an end.”

He would return to the city, he would put these cursed Eyes under lock and key, and then he would go home...to Nightbird. He would tell her what he could not before...

She smiled slightly, and seemed about to speak, when he felt both the Eyes begin to tremble.

He stared at them, faintly aware of Berylla's look of alarm – unable to move, to speak, to stop them – dark aether flared, and then he was wrapped in darkness.

A darkness that _roared_.

“ _Thou hadst done well to resist mine influence, bathed in my power and blood as thou wert_.” The darkness laughed, a cruel sound. “ _Alas, in thine anticipation of comfort, thou hast let down thy guard!_ ”

Estinien's body arched in agony as Nidhogg's will crushed his, as the dragon's power swept over him. His flesh writhed even as his mind was assaulted. He hung onto sanity with teeth and toenails as the wyrm continued to speak.

“ _The keening of my fallen kindred_ ,” Nidhogg hissed, “ _their smoldering desire for vengeance... Mine eyes have partaken of a thousand years of pain – a pain which I shall bestow upon thee_.”

Estinien's soul quailed at the dark promise in the wyrm's voice.

“ _Drink deep of my rage, mortal._ ” Nidhogg's whisper became a roar. “ _ **AND BECOME ME!**_ ”

Estinien screamed.

The pain lasted for a year, and yet it was over in an instant. Had Estinien been able, he might have vomited from the agony. But he no longer controlled his body – he no longer had a body. He hung in darkness, and knew himself imprisoned, at the mercy of a creature whose heart harbored none.

_No!_

He could yet see, faintly, as the dragon seized his flesh and began to transmute it. He saw Berylla fall back, teeth bared in a grimace of mixed fear and rage, saw her fumbling for her axe. The idiot would try to stand toe to toe with Nidhogg, not comprehending how much more dangerous he was, now that his eyes were reunited. He cursed himself for a fool, and then flung his will against that of the great wyrm.

A flash of pain and he could no longer see, but he sensed that the dragon had transformed his own body into a simulacrum of Nidhogg's original form, made up as much of aether as of material flesh. With desperate fervor he screamed into the darkness, trying to distract the great wyrm, to turn his ire aside. He did not want to see Berylla crushed beneath the talons of the beast – Aymeric would never forgive him.

Somehow he managed to insinuate his own will into Nidhogg's control over their shared shell – just a tiny amount, but enough to persuade the fell beast to turn away, to decide that he had better things to do than squash the annoyance at his feet.

With a roar, Nidhogg leaped into the air, and flew through one of the odd gaps in the hexagonal panels that made up the walls of the chamber.

Once out among the strange spaces and pillars, the dragon unleashed destruction. Roaring, he demolished entire banks of the odd looking Allagan holding tanks, and with a swipe of his tail he opened a gash in a fuel cell, causing ceruleum to spill out, a strange fountain.

Then he set that fountain alight with his fiery breath.

Explosions began to echo throughout the structure. Well pleased with the chaos, Nidhogg roared once more. Then he turned, smashed through the hull, and soared out into the open air, leaving the burning ship far behind.

Nightbird stood on the steps near the Astrologicum and listened. She had paused at the astonishing sight of a dragon landing at the airship platform – like everyone else in the vicinity – but she had stayed to listen when the others had fled. She was too far away to make out expressions clearly, but she could already see that Estinien was not among the others. She frowned. Where was he? They were returned in triumph, were they not?

Then, the great dragon spoke. His voice echoed in her head as much as it rang off the stones, a novel and perhaps unnerving experience. But it was the words he said that made her blood run cold.

 _Nidhogg's soul doth live on. His unbridled rage hath claimed for its vessel the one thou callest the Azure Dragoon_.

There was a tap on her door, late in the night. She got up from her chair. It had taken Alphinaud long enough to answer her message, but that didn't entirely surprise her, and she was likely far down his list of priorities.

Alphinaud's anxious expression met her gaze, and she opened the door further, letting him in.

“I would have been here sooner to speak with you, but – ”

She held up her hand to silence him. “I heard what the dragon had to say. What I am hoping is that you can explain to me just how it happened.”

He frowned deeply. “I cannot. Berylla tried to explain – before she went out drinking, that is.” He shook his head. “My apologies. From what I can gather, Estinien had taken up both of Nidhogg's Eyes, and moments later, the transformation took place. I cannot venture even a tentative _guess_ as to exactly what caused it, for I was not present.”

“But _I_ was.”

Nightbird's head snapped up to look at her doorway – she had not yet closed the door, and now a blond Miqote woman stood there, one hand on the door-frame.

“It’s been a long time, Nightbird.” She smiled though it did not reach her eyes.

Nightbird swayed for a moment as if she’d been struck. “F-Felina.” The singer’s skin turned ashen.

Alphinaud looked between the two women. “Ah...you have met, I see?” But neither Nightbird nor Felina answered him.

How long had it been since that awful morning in the Toll? She had run away from her friend after hurting her - breaking her heart. Nightbird's eyes whisked over Felina swiftly, noting the changes in the other Miqote. Gods, she looked too thin, and her eyes were so hard now... Nightbird shivered.

Alphinaud put his hand on her arm, alarmed. “Are you ill?”

“N-no. No, I am...fine.” Nightbird swallowed hard and managed to even her voice. “You were present during the battle?”

She nodded. “And Pale too. I saw what happened. But Pale _saw_ it.”

A million questions cascaded through Nightbird’s head. She chose her words with immense care. “He...is, ah, here also?”

She wanted to fling herself at the other woman, wanted to babble and cry and ask if the two of them were all right. She knew she could not. She had lost that privilege a long time ago. Only her training as a performer kept her eyes dry, but nothing helped the ache in her chest.

Felina glanced behind her. “Snow, come on in.” She stepped inside and the man who followed looked like Pale, but looked at Nightbird as if she were a stranger.

What had _happened_ to the two of them? Why was Pale wearing the uniform, such as it was, of the heretics? Nightbird had to clamp down on her own mind, lest she be swept away on her own confusion. She had to think of Estinien.

“Please,” she managed, her voice hoarse in spite of her effort to not show her feelings. “Please, tell me all that you can.”

He nodded. “I did not know Estinien well. I only knew him through Y-” He stopped, swallowing, and Nightbird could have sworn his eyes teared up. Felina put her hand on his arm, and he cleared his throat. “Through Ysayle.” He paused again to take a breath. “I saw the dragoon take up Nidhogg’s eye. A second one, and when he brought out his own…” He went on to describe the scene as he saw it. How he’d felt both eyes' power himself, and how the power that twisted Estinien’s form had brought him to his knees as well.

“Through the pain, I saw him in a dark place as the dragon flew around and around. I saw his form engulfed in flame, and then he was gone, replaced by the dragon.”

Nightbird could not stop the sound that came from her throat. She barely held in the tears now. Her beloved…! She closed her eyes and lowered her head, concentrating with desperate fervor on that tiny thread that joined her soul to his. Not dead, _not dead_ , he could not be dead, she would _know_ if he were dead...But a strange silence met her. Not an absence, but as if a wall had blocked her sight of him.

Alphinaud’s hand was still on her arm and his fingers tightened. She managed to open her eyes, and with a deep breath, she patted his hand and returned her gaze to the two before her.

Pale - or Snow, as Felina had called him - continued, “I don’t believe he’s gone. I.. I can feel the dragon somehow, and Nidhogg changed as well. I don’t know how, but I can’t believe the dragon took all of him.” He paused. “I’m to understand that you were close to this dragoon?”

Nightbird cast a glance at Alphinaud, whose ears went a touch pink. “I had to explain to them why you needed to know.”

She shook her head, then straightened. “I love him.” She said the words simply. “If there is aught that can be done to save him...I thank you for your information and your insights. I…” She stopped, and dropped her eyes. She could not say more.

Pale spoke one more, his voice tinged with grief. “My love counted him as a friend, and she died to get him to Azys Lla. I thought the least I could do, was to tell you of Estinien’s fate.”

Alphinaud spoke. “We will find a way to save him.” His hand on Nightbird’s arm shook. “We must.”

“Right.” Felina’s own voice was thick with emotion. “We’ll get him back, Nightbird.”

Nightbird’s eyes flew up to meet Felina’s. She dared not hope…

Felina smiled, though the sadness in her eyes made her own pain evident. She looked up at the grieving Elezen beside her. “Come on, Snow. Let’s go home. It’s been a long day.”

Nightbird’s hands twitched. She wanted to reach out, to offer them tea, anything to make them stay a few moments more. Her eyes wanted to look at them, her arms wanted to hug them, and she knew it could not be. She could not even make herself say goodbye as they turned away and went out the door.

The door closed, and only then did she realize that Alphinaud was still standing beside her. His brows were drawn together in a worried frown. “Nightbird, you do not look at all well.”

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “I am sure you would prefer that I explain, but I – not tonight, at the very least. I am exhausted. Tomorrow is the memorial...”

“I shall be in attendance,” he promised. “I know you have worked very hard. Please, take care of yourself. I shall not keep you from your rest any longer.”

She set her hand over his before he moved. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For answering me. It is not _good_ hearing, but it is better than not knowing anything.”

“I cannot claim to be as close to him as you,” he answered, “but he is my friend, as are you. I value my friends very highly, and I have lost far too many of them. I will fight with all I have to rescue Estinien and bring him home.”

She smiled, though a tear ran down her cheek. “Then I shall have faith in you, and help you if I can.”

He ducked his head, and then – to her surprise – put his arms around her shoulders in a very brief hug. “Good night,” he said as he let her go.

“Good night.” She watched him leave, and then she sat down on the wing chair nearest her fireplace. She put her face in her hands then, and allowed herself to cry.


	19. The Sweet and the Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends, old wounds. But at last, it is time for healing to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features two characters that belong to the incomparable [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville)  
> Pale and Felina will guest star for a bit!

The memorial had gone beautifully. Not a single missed note, and far more miraculously – not a single social “incident.” But it had been a very, very long day. Nightbird couldn't recall when she had ever been more exhausted.

She walked into her room, feeling emptied out. Tomorrow, she would pack her things, and the Count's people would begin the process of moving her to her new suite of rooms, two floors up from here. She had seen the suite this morning – the Count seemed to feel it necessary to offer her the option of changing the decor. She had taken a long look at the room – done up in the House colors – and had reassured her “uncle” that all was well. She hadn't had the heart to admit that she couldn't care less what color the drapes were – not right now. Not when her heart was heavy with grief and worry.

Not when Estinien was yet missing.

Berylla had not attended the memorial, but Alphinaud had kept his promise, arriving in the early part of the afternoon. He had made a point of telling her that Berylla was spending her day out of the city – at the site of Haurchefant's grave.

He had then taken it upon himself to escort her back to Fortemps Manor, and had insisted that she was to join himself, the Count, and his sons for the evening meal. Still dressed in her performance finery – a new suit, very Ishgardian in style, all in black – she had acquiesced.

Now, tired as she was, she felt glad that she had agreed. She had needed the quiet, pleasant company more than she wanted to admit. It had grounded her, to simply listen to the men talking about nothing in particular; reminded her that the world went on even when she felt as if everything in her life teetered on the brink of the abyss.

She undressed, and wrapped herself in her warmest dressing-gown, then went to the window and opened it.

The breeze was frigid, but she leaned on the windowsill for a moment and let the ice-edged air prickle her face. How often had she watched Estinien come to this window? She tipped her head and whispered a prayer into the night. “Watch over him. Bring him home.”

Water stung her eyes, and she stood straight and shut the window, latching it tight. Then she drew the curtains, and retreated to the shelter of her bed.

*

Felina knocked softly on the door to Nightbird’s suite within the Fortemps manor. She felt strange standing in a noble’s hallway, especially given her more recent associations with the heretics. It didn't matter that it had been weeks since Ser Aymeric had declared that the heretics weren't really heretics anymore. It didn't even matter that in the last fortnight quite a few of the former heretics had come home to the city at last. It still felt damned _strange_.

She waited, listening for movement on the other side of the door.

Nightbird opened the door, and blinked a few times when she saw Felina. Then she stepped back, her eyes not meeting the other bard’s. “Come in, please.”

She walked through the door and stood looking aimlessly about the room. It seemed she too was in no hurry to meet the other woman's eyes.

It was a rather fancy room, with lots of space and furniture color coordinated with the drapes. A noblewoman’s room. There was even a full size harp in one corner and a bloody damned piano.

“Fancy place you’ve got here.” Her voice sounded flat, as if she barely saw the room at all.

Nightbird swallowed. “I did not earn it.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Felina gave a small hiccup of a laugh. “You were always the overachiever.”

“The Count insisted that I take this suite…” Nightbird shrugged. “He seems to have a habit of adopting people.”

That actually pulled a small laugh from the blonde Miqote. “So I’ve heard.” She went quiet, and the silence hung heavy between them. “Nightbird, something’s happened, and I think I need your help.”

Nightbird looked at Felina and her mouth twisted. “I will help you however I can. I...would extend my apologies, as well. I never…” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I never really told you that I was sorry, back then.”

Felina turned and met her former friend’s gaze. Her own eyes were dry but not because she wasn’t hurting. Dark circles spoke of sleepless nights. She was simply too tired to cry. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. He doesn’t remember either of us. But that’s not why I came.” She took a deep breath. “It’s Pale. He’s been having these dreams. Some of them sound like old memories, but he still doesn’t recognize them as such. But some…” She shivered. “They’re bad, Nightbird. I don’t think he’s slept since Estinien…” She let the words trail off. She could see that the past few days had not dulled Nightbird’s worry.

The dark haired Miqote tugged her hair into a side tail, fiddling with it. “What can you tell me about them? And what can I do to help? I’m not sure any of my healing magic will be effective, but I can perhaps try formulating a tea?”

“I’ll take anything. I’m desperate.”

“I would prefer to examine him, but if that isn’t possible, I can put some medicine together today. It’s not that late in the day, the apothecaries should still be open.”

Felina nodded. “I don’t know if mundane means will work though. These dreams… they’re connected to Nidhogg. He sees vast expanses of darkness streaked with… he calls them ‘tendrils of malice’. He can hear the dragon’s voice as if it’s speaking to him, but it’s not. It’s not _him_ the dragon’s speaking to.”

Nightbird’s hands curled into fists for a moment. She bowed her head, hiding her face from Felina. She could feel Estinien still, through that tenuous connection. She had heard whispers in her dreams, the barest hint of a voice. Could it be...could it be barely possible?

“There is a tea I can make. It is not...not the safest thing. But it can call forth visions, and perhaps grant some measure of, of power over them. Of directing them.” She lifted her eyes. “I would insist on being present when he uses it. If that is not possible, then I cannot in good conscience give you such a thing. He could die. I won’t risk his life.”

“If he takes this, will he be able to keep the visions at bay long enough to sleep? I’m worried. He’s delirious as it is. But if it works… If he can sleep… I-I have an idea. But Pale needs to be able to rest and be in control of himself for it to work.”

Nightbird frowned, thinking. “I can understand that this may not sound like the most comfortable idea. But, can you persuade him to come here? I can promise that neither of you will be troubled by the authorities, and I can arrange for some kind of cots in here....or something of the sort. But if he is here, then even if I cannot aid him, he is that much closer to those who may be able to do so.”

“I can have him here by nightfall. I don’t care about comfort. Not for myself. I just…” Felina put her hand over her eyes. “I lost him once, and I may never get him back. At this point, I just want to do what I can… Nightbird, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, and certainly not on a friend.”

“Very well. Please, bring him here. I…” She lifted her hand, reaching towards Felina for an instant, before dropping it back to her side and hugging herself. “I will be here.”

Felina nodded and rubbed at her dry eyes. She sniffled though and sucked in a breath. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She passed Nightbird as she walked to the door. She stopped, and without looking back she whispered. “Thank you.”

*

It was, indeed, nightfall by the time Felina returned. When Nightbird answered the door, Felina stood with an exhausted Pale, practically supporting his entire weight as he leaned heavily on her small frame.

Nightbird ushered them both in. True to her word, a pair of cots had been set up, with standing screens to give some hint of privacy, and there was a new, or at least a different, table in the corner of the room, laden with some odd looking pouches, and two tea kettles, each with its own spirit lamp. A bottle of Silver Rose tequila also stood on the table, and beside it, a small blue glass bottle, with a hand written label reading “Chml + Vlrn. Tincture.”

Nightbird helped Felina settle Pale on the closer of the cots, and quickly examined him with hand and aether senses. Exhaustion, dehydration - little surprise there - and his aether was a mess as well, though it wasn’t clear to her exactly why. She would not yet attempt the kind of effort it would take to examine him that closely.

“First, I think,” she said, mostly to Pale, “a night of solid rest may be of the most help. Yes?”

He nodded with a grunt and an unintelligible murmur.

Felina inclined her head as well, looking deferentially at the dark Miqote. “I’ve been trying my hand at the healing arts recently, but I haven’t even come close to knowing as much as you do. It was just too much for me to handle.”

“I sometimes feel, even now, that I might never learn all that I need to know,” Nightbird sighed. “I have a medicine that will make him rest.” She moved toward the table, then looked over her shoulder. “Do you still like peppermint, P - ah, Snow?”

“I… think so?”

Felina smiled. She might have laughed if she hadn’t been so worried. Her eyes softened. “He does.”

Nightbird picked up a blue glass bottle, a silver spoon, and a little pouch. She came back over and set the pouch on the cot next to Pale, then measured a dose from the bottle into the spoon. She handed the spoon to Pale. “Set the spoon in your mouth, as close to the back of your tongue as you can. Best to avoid tasting it if you can.”

Pale took the spoon, trying to steady himself as much as he could. He got most of it to the back of his mouth, but managed to spill a bit over the rest of his tongue. He grimaced, but swallowed it all down. “Gods.”

“Yes, it’s a bit unpleasant, but this is the strongest sleeping draught I was able to obtain. Here.” She picked up the pouch and plucked out a peppermint candy. “You’ll need to suck on this a bit before you can actually eat it, but it’s very good for clearing the palate.”

Then, Nightbird carried the items back over to the table, and set the spoon in a glass of water.

Pale took the candy and did as Nightbird asked. He closed his eyes as he let the cool sweetness dissolve on his tongue. “It tastes… familiar.” He looked up at the two women with a thoughtful expression, as if he might almost place where he knew the flavor from, but he shook his head as the feeling slipped away.

Felina sighed, looking disappointed, and patted his shoulder. “I”ll get you some more of those later since you seem to like them.” She looked over at Nightbird. “How long does it take that tincture to kick in?”

“Usually fifteen minutes.”

She leaned down to look Pale in the eyes. “If you get too sleepy, spit it out. I don’t want you choking on that thing.”

His brows drew together and he squinted at her. “I’m not a child, you know.”

Felina smiled, satisfied. His reaction was so much like the way he used to be. “I know.”

*

Pale was sleeping soundly before too long, and Felina breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, again. I was at the end of my rope.”

Nightbird sat in a chair, and looked at the sleeping Elezen. “I only hope I can help him further. Simply sedating him is not going to be enough to realign his aether…”

Felina nodded. “I thought as much.” She leaned over and brushed a bit of hair away from his face, letting her hand linger for a moment before pulling her hands into her lap.

Nightbird bit her lip. “Felina...what...what’s _happened_ to you?” Her voice trembled, a complicated mix of worry and old sorrow and new hesitation coloring her words.

She swallowed. “A lot. We both got caught up in some magic Y'Shtola used. It dumped me right outside Dragonhead. It took me a while to find Pale. Honestly, it was sheer luck. The magic took his memory, but it… gave me things.” She shivered. “Visions… and these.” She opened her mouth. Inside, Nightbird could see two fangs, grown back as if Felina had never touched them with that wretched file. “But dealing with… just everything. It’s been hard.”

Nightbird looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “I wish I could have been there for you. I _should_ have been…”

Felina shook her head. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

Nightbird bit her lip, then ventured, “Not a day has gone by that I haven’t missed both of you.” Her eyes glanced up at Felina, then down, as if afraid to see rejection.

Felina’s face grew tense, but her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. “I missed you too. It’s been lonely.”

“I...I didn’t really mean it,” Nightbird offered, “when I called you a brat.”

Felina’s lip quivered more, her eyes squeezing shut before she broke out into laughter. Tears rolled down her face, and she swiped them away. “I appreciate you saying that, but I’m afraid you may have been, at least a little bit, right.”

Nightbird’s own eyes were damp. She held her hands out towards Felina. Words failed her.

Felina looked up at the other Miqote. She couldn’t remember a time she had ever seen her so out of sorts, so… speechless. Felina found herself moving before her mind even had a chance to register it, and she nearly bowled the other woman over with the force of her hug. “I missed you so much, Nightbird.”

Nightbird hugged her back, sobbing. Felina rubbed her back as her friend cried against her shoulder. She couldn’t help crying herself. So many emotions and loneliness had been bottled up inside her for so long. Pale might not remember her, but Nightbird was still right here. She still had a friend to hold onto.

The two women stayed that way until they were reduced to only sniffles. Felina swiped the tears off her cheeks. There was really only one thing she needed to know. Something that had troubled her from the moment she saw Pale in bed with her friend.

“Nightbird, for the record, I don’t think you did anything wrong. Neither did he.” She nodded toward the sleeping Elezen. “But I need to know… Do you…” This was harder to say than it should have been. “Do you love him?”

Nightbird shifted back a little, and met Felina’s eyes. “Yes, but not like...not like that. Not the way you do. I never…” She took a long breath. “I love Pale the same way that I love you. As my friends.” Her voice was thick with fresh tears. “But it is Estinien who holds my heart in all other ways.”

Felina slumped, her whole body folding in on itself as if a giant weight had been lifted from her. She found herself sobbing a little from the relief. She hadn’t really known how much that answer meant to her, and how afraid she had been for the answer to have been other than what Nightbird had told her.

She wiped her eyes yet again. “I promise, I will do everything in my power to bring Estinien home to you.” As the lost dragoon’s name left her lips, though, a memory surged to the forefront of her mind, and she put her head in her hands. “Oh gods. Nightbird, I-I don’t know how to say this. I have a confession to make.”

Nightbird rubbed her friend’s shoulders gently. “I’m listening.” She felt in that moment that there was very little Felina could possibly say that would trouble her.

Felina took a deep breath. “After Haurchefant's funeral, I visited Ser Aymeric’s house to request passage to Azys Lla. When I got there, Estinien was already there. Well…” She paused trying to gather her thoughts. “There was this, um, poker game, and things happened, and…” She looked up at Nightbird. “I didn’t know you two were together, and I… I mean, we… I-I mean, really the three of us-”

Nightbird interrupted. “He is quite the lover, isn’t he?”

“What?”

Nightbird smiled a little bit, and petted Felina’s hair, tucking stray strands back from her face. “He is a wild creature in some ways. I don’t mind that you enjoyed pleasure with him. He has been so very bound by his duty and by the Eye...I would not, will not, add to his chains. I love him. I believe he loves me. But I do not try to hold him.” She hugged Felina. “It’s all right.”

Felina sniffled and clutched her friend. “Maybe I need to take lessons from you on sharing. Seems I’m pretty shit at it.” She laughed despite herself.

“Not at all,” Nightbird murmured, not letting go. “You need what you need, Felina. We’re different people. I can hardly claim any great wisdom when it comes to matters of the heart. Only what I have learned from the mistakes I’ve made.”

Felina sighed and leaned her temple against her friend’s. “I love you, Nightbird.”

“I love you too. So very much.” Nightbird sniffled once more. “I am so glad…”

Then she shifted back. “But you look so tired. Maybe I should dose you, too, hm?” She smiled to show she was only teasing.

Felina laughed. “We might not be sharing a bed anymore.” She gestured to Pale. “But he’s worn me out!”

Nightbird chuckled. “He was ever an exhausting man.”

“Some things never change.” She smiled. “Thank the gods.”

*

It was evening again, the third evening Felina and Pale had spent in Nightbird’s suite. Both of them looked much better than they had – uninterrupted sleep had been a great help. Nightbird suspected that the higher quality food hadn't hurt either. She wondered – but did not ask – how the heretics were surviving now that they were no longer actively being hunted down.

She had heard that some few had returned to the city, but hardly all of them had done so. Winter would be here soon, and winter in Coerthas was unforgiving to say the least. Yet, she could not help but feel that any questions from her would be taken as prying by both her friends. So, she kept silent on the matter.

There were other concerns for this evening. Pale was recovered enough from general exhaustion for them to discuss his visions.

She listened as he described what little he could, and thought hard. “I do think you are having true visions,” she told him at last. “There can be no doubt that somehow you are receiving some kind of – I suppose echo is a good enough word for it. An echo of what Estinien is experiencing perhaps, or some kind of echo from the wyrm himself.”

Pale nodded. “That sounds right. The Azure Dragoon seemed very familiar when I met him. There are visions that are more benign in nature, like memories, and maybe they are. But the ones where I’m in that void, and I can feel someone there. A presence that’s not in those other visions. And perhaps it’s strange, but it just feels like him.” He paused, thoughtful for a moment. “But you say this tea may be able to give me more control over these darker visions? A way to keep them at bay so I may rest?”

She bit her lip, then proceeded to tell him about the Sharlayan seers' tea. “It is not safe,” she repeated. “But it may be of use. If you are here when you use it, I can safeguard you somewhat.”

“Very well. I cannot likely survive another eight days of torment. I thought I might be losing my mind.”

She brewed the tea with care, and finally the cup was ready. Pale eyed the stuff, grimacing. Nightbird did not blame him. The tea was meant to be drunk unfiltered. It looked, and rather smelled like, hot pond water.

“I have some fruit juice to clear the taste,” she told him.

Pale took the cup from her, steeled himself, and drank the lot in one go.

He nearly dropped the cup as he swallowed the last of it. His eyes watered and he coughed.

“That is the foulest concoction I have ever tasted in my life!!” He shook his head as if that might somehow help clear the taste from his palate.

Nightbird took the cup and set a glass of orange juice in his hand. “Take a small sip and swish first,” she advised. “It will be even worse, but the second sip should then actually taste of the juice.”

Pale did as she bid him, making faces the entire time. He looked entirely comical. Felina patted him on the back as she suppressed a chuckle at his displeasure.

At last the juice was gone, and he handed the glass back. “Now what?”

“Now you lie down again. This will force you into a trance state, a kind of sleep, and you're safer lying down.”

“Very well.”

“I am hoping you will talk as you dream,” Nightbird told him as he got comfortable. “But no matter what, we are both here watching over you.”

Pale looked between the two women, but his eyes lingered on Felina. She gave him the most reassuring smile she could muster. “We’ll be here when you awake.” He nodded as his eyes grew heavy as did his limbs. The edges of the room went fuzzy and then black.

*

Pale was wrapped in darkness.

It was a stinking, roiling, acrid darkness, a writhing, hot darkness that wanted to devour him, to destroy his essence and scatter his pieces on the wind. He fought it with single-minded determination.

When the darkness changed, he was ready.

A glimmer of light, as the writhing aether around him shifted. A glimpse of sky, and cloud. Pale flung himself at it, but tendrils of aether snapped tight upon him and he grunted as he was snatched backwards. But now he could see his armor – still stained crimson with blood – and the tendrils that licked across that armor, plucking at it, looking for purchase.

He growled, and the armor glowed brighter, singeing those seeking tendrils of power.

 _Thou canst not win this fight. Give in._ The dragon's voice boomed around him, through him, rattling his bones.

[He had long trained his will for this kind of struggle, even before the Eye had spoken for him. He knew well how the draconic mind worked. And so it was with his thoughts that he fired off his words like arrows.]

Pale realized the voice was not his own, the armor was not his own, even as the words formed.

“I will fight, I will win, and you will perish as you should have done decades ago.”

Estinien’s voice.

_There is no victory for thee, worm. I will make you watch as I devour every man, woman, and child in thy precious city._

Estinien’s growl deepened, and the dread wyrm laughed.

*

Nightbird kept an eye on Pale's aether even as she monitored his heartbeat. It roiled, and she could see now what she had seen in Estinien. She'd thought it was simply the way the dragoon's aether naturally was – she saw now that was not quite the case. Pale's aether was less muddied, but the patterns were the same. There was a taste to the blackness that clung to him, acrid and smoky.

Estinien's aether had been much the same color as his armor – a deep dark blue, shot through with silver; colors like the night sky. She had thought the smokiness of him to just be a part of him...now she understood, perhaps because it was easier to see the black stains against Pale's white-blue aether.

She traced along the pattern, and saw: the Eye was the link. Even though it was plain Pale had not held connection with the relic for long, it had been long enough to leave these marks. Long enough for Nidhogg's essence to soak into him.

She recalled her lessons on basic aether theory. What once touched, always touches, and distance only matters in terms of how much power must be expended to do anything with that connection.

Pale's breathing and heartbeat slowed as his trance deepened. Nightbird took his hand, as Felina looked on, both women prepared to sit in vigil.

*

The darkness was everywhere, and the dragon was gone. Pale floated, aimless, lost, alone. For an instant he wondered if Ysayle might be found here, in this starless night. Was this the peace that Nightbird’s solution offered? A sleep without dreams, a darkness full of only silence. It was, indeed, peaceful...

*

“He's not breathing!” Her terror was plain as Felina grabbed up his hand. “His aether has gone quiet! Nightbird, I can’t hear him!”

“I know, I know. Give me...a moment...” Nightbird’s jaw was clenched tight, as she poured power into her friend. His body had gone stiff and that had been all the warning they had. She could hear the blonde Miqote murmuring, half panic stricken, half angry.

“No, no, no, no! Don’t you dare fucking leave me?! Do you hear me!?

Nightbird spread her fingers across his chest, and with a mental _twist_ , dived into Pale's aether. She knew of no other way she might hope to affect that black taint within him.

Her body remained in place, but her “self” flowed over and into the Elezen. But once there she realized with dismay that what was happening to him was not caused by Nidhogg.

All the texts had warned about this, and for all her careful and exacting measurements, for all that she had personally inspected every leaf of the ingredients...the tea had been too strong for his system to handle. It did not matter exactly why. What mattered was that she had to negate the poisons now surging through his veins.

Normally a simple _esuna_ was sufficient, but not this time. The traditional use would be too quick, too shallow, removing only the surface toxins and leaving the more pernicious ones.

She was already entwined. That much, at least, was simple. At the edge of her senses, she felt another presence. Felina was there, a faint melody growing louder until a field of stars burst upon Pale’s aether. The light coalesced and threaded its way through his aether as it flowed with the song.

Nightbird observed what her friend was doing, and inspiration flashed over her mind. Her body took a long breath. Then, her spirit sang.

It was, in essence, a cadenza on the theme of purification that “was” an _esuna_. She flooded every corner of Pale's body with it, her song tangling and catching up the turbulent flows and sweeping them away. As if in the distance, a faint harmony joined her voice, old and familiar.

Time meant nothing, there was only the slow and steady wash of power, like a tide, chasing down every speck of that which would harm her friend. In the wake of that tide, another power followed, faint as it was to her own senses. Felina touched every part Nightbird did, cooling the burn of Pale's poisoned aether.

At last it was done. She moved to extricate herself, much of her power spent. Exhausted, she was less adept in leaving than she had been in arriving, and brushed up against his mind. But he did not react and so she kept moving, returning to herself like a weary traveler finding his own door once more.

She sat up, letting go of his hand, sighing deeply.

“He will be all right.”

Felina’s gaze met her own. The other woman could only nod. Tears streaked her face as well as Pale’s. The blonde swayed where she sat, before collapsing across his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for letting me drag her OCs into all this!  
> And if you are interested in the various and wild misadventures of Felina and Pale (and a younger Nightbird!) please check out her work!


	20. Threnody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nidhogg comes looking for Nightbird  
> And when he finds her...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING!!!!  
> This is going to get very ugly, there is sadness and there is rape and there is mention of abortion measures.  
> PLEASE be aware as you read.

_The dragon dreamed._

_A face – skin like the night, amber eyes – and a voice, a haunting voice, floated across the vast sea of darkness that was the backdrop of all his dreams. He flew above that endless sea, forever calling for his lost kin, forever hearing only his own voice, his own sorrow and rage._

_This voice was different. And somehow – small as it was compared to his bellowing roar – it cut right through to the heart of him. This voice sang a song he had not heard in a thousand years._

_Ratatoskr? But his beloved sister had never taken a mortal shape, not even as a jest. And she had been the color of opals in moonlight, not dark as the face of the new moon..._

_Who was this voice...?_

_And then he felt it, heard it, the muffled keening from that filthy worm whose shape he had stolen. This voice...it was in his memory. Someone he knew. Someone he treasured._

_Moved by curiosity as much as by the prospect of a new way to torment the one he hated so very personally, he delved into the memories further. And when he discovered the truth – despite the worm's best efforts to hide it from him – his great mouth gaped open with fascinated delight and wicked anticipation._

_ The dragon woke._

_**Let me show myself;** _

_**I will come out of hiding for you alone.** _

_**Reach for me with your song.** _

Nightbird had taken a job delivering a message out to Idyllshire. It was a good excuse for getting out of the city, without making anyone worry for her. The road was quiet, the Hinterlands were beautiful enough to serve as some small balm on her spirit, and now that she had completed her job, she could spend a little time alone.

There were many cliffs here, and many places atop those cliffs where flat ground could be found, perched at a dizzying height above the valley floor. There were even remnants of buildings.

She had found one such location, looking out over the sweeping view where the Thaliak river flowed outward and onward, far below and beyond Idyllshire, and eventually to the sea. A little stream murmured to itself before it dove off the cliff. A section of white stone wall still stood, making a good spot to build a fire and pitch her tent. She had set up camp, planning to stay the night here and head back to Ishgard in the morning.

The air was crisp. If her thoughts had not been so very dark, she could have enjoyed herself.

But Estinien was gone.

She knew that Estinien was not _dead_...and that was nearly all she knew. He was somehow trapped by the power of the dread wyrm Nidhogg, and she had no idea what that _really_ meant. It might mean nothing at all; it might mean that the man she loved was all but obliterated. It might mean something in between that her mind could not yet compass.

She hugged her knees and rested her forehead on her arms. She _would not_ grieve for him. Not until she knew for certain he was truly beyond her reach.

A shadow passed over her, and a cold wind. She looked up, and gasped, scrambling to get her back against the rocks. An enormous dragon had flown over her, and was now practically turning on its wing tip to make another run.

But the creature did not attack her, merely flew past her once more. One baleful eye stared at her, until it was too far past, and once more it turned, graceful as a dancer. It hovered a moment and seemed to look down its long black nose at her.

Then it landed, but even as it did so, its shape was enveloped in a cloud of dark aether – purple and black like a fresh bruise – and then, standing on the edge of the cliff...

“ _Estinien?_ ”

The figure in crimson armor crossed his arms and just stared at her for a long moment. Nightbird stared back, conflicting feelings storming through her.

 _Thou art the singer_.

She went stiff as the voice echoed inside her head. The words that came from Estinien's mouth weren't any human tongue, and the voice was not his...and yet.

“Who...who are you?”

Something flashed red behind the visor. _Do not waste my time, song maker. Thou knowest me. Thy fear is a perfume on the air_.

She took a long breath, and her eyes narrowed. The creature could have killed her without ever speaking a word to her. He seemed disinclined to actively harm her, at least for now. So it followed that he wanted speech of her, but why?

“You wear the shape of one I know well,” she said carefully. “Do you come to mock me, then? To enjoy my fear, my pain?”

“Never.”

She couldn't suppress her gasp. That had been Estinien's voice!

By the Twelve...he was still in there, somehow. Still alive, trapped in his body...trapped by the soul of this monster?

 _Thy face haunts my dreaming, disturbs my rest,_ Nidhogg's voice grumbled _. I come to see thee with mine own eyes. To hear thee_.

“What do you wish to hear? I shall not weep for your entertainment.”

He laughed. A cruel, cold sound. _Then sing for me_. The curl of his lips showed that the dread wyrm knew exactly how much meaning the phrase carried. Nightbird choked down a sob as he repeated himself.

 _Sing for me. Little bird_.

“And if I do not?”

 _If thou carest not for this mortal, hold thy tongue_. The wyrm's voice was indifferent. _He may believe thee exceptional, but I see nothing before me but a frail little slip of a girl, a morsel to be sure, but no more. Keep thy silence, and I shall leave._

Estinien's lips stretched in a smile that looked horribly unnatural. _I shall leave, and never again shalt thou set eyes upon this form._

“I will sing,” she whispered.

She fetched her instrument from her pack, and settled herself on a fallen stone from the wall. She couldn't look at the dragon wearing her beloved's skin, and so she sang with her eyes on the horizon.

But she concentrated as she never had before, bending her will and her aether into her voice, weaving her power into her songs. At first she chose music meant to show off a singer's skill. Arias and elaborately ornamental art songs, things she might sing for a concert of the very highest sort. Her power lent her more instruments than the harp in her hand, ghosts of violins and flutes melding with the plucking of strings. And as she did all these things, she searched in her mind's eye.

The dragon's aether was a black wall around them. She had no doubt that even link-pearls would not work, right now. Nidhogg did not want to be found, or interrupted – or both. The same black miasma folded around Estinien's body, moving restlessly, a shadow in the shape of the dread wyrm. She could feel the hatred, the madness, the lust for vengeance that made up most of the creature's energy and soul. There was still a mind there – a sliver of reason among the vast, unfathomable sea of darkness. A single shard from a mirror long ago broken.

And there, clinging to that single shard – a bright spark. Estinien's soul. It flickered in the dark like a lonely star.

She fell silent for a moment, and the dragon stirred. _Is thy store of song run dry?_ Nidhogg's tone was a mockery of concern.

She shook her head, blinking a little as she realized that night had fallen as she sang. It seemed strange to see the night instead of the roiling blackness that she had been staring at for so long. She turned her head, looking directly at the figure in armor who stood, like a statue, in the same pose he'd been in hours ago.

Her fingers began to pluck a melody, and for one moment she wasn't even sure what song she was playing – but when she heard Estinien's gasp, she knew that somehow her intuition had hit upon something important.

The hymn to Halone, the one that she had sung the very first night they'd ever seen each other, poured forth from her, and now she put more than magic behind those words. She poured her heart out to float on the air, so that every word took on a new weight. She cast her love into the blackness, towards that single bright spark, hoping against hope that it might touch – a lifeline, a moment of solace, even just enough contact to remind him that he was not alone...

Within the blackness, golden song flowed around him. Like sunlight wrought into strands and ribbons, it wound around and among the dark tendrils that imprisoned him. Where they stung like acid, the gold soothed. Where they enervated, the music strengthened him.

It was not enough. But it was so much more than he had had before.

He opened his eyes, and blinked, realizing he was able now to see through his actual, physical eyes. He could not move his body, not even enough to flex his fingers. But he could see. He could hear.

Nightbird's voice.

She sat, plucking her harp, eyes focused far away. He didn't know the music. He only knew it was beautiful – and that he was afraid.

He felt the wyrm's pleased reaction to that fear. He wanted to fight, to scream, to tell her to run. To fling himself off this cliff and dash his skull open on the rocks, so that the evil that held him in thrall would do her no harm.

The wyrm's attention wavered. She'd stopped singing.

The dragon mocked her, and she shook her head, blinking. Then she looked at him.

She looked at _him_. She saw him, as she always had seen him, even when he tried his hardest to hide from her. Her eyes met his and she knew him.

And then she began to sing again.

His heart jolted at the first notes. The hymn. She was singing the hymn.

He flung his energy and his will against the dragon's, in a frenzy. He must not allow her to come to harm...even if he could wrest control for a mere moment he could end this all.

To his astonishment the dragon did not crush his attempt. Nidhogg was listening, and for an instant the endless stormy sea of his vengeance soaked soul calmed. A single moment, as the dragon's own heart paused, responded to what was threaded through her voice.

Estinien struck.

_**Let me hold you;** _

_**Wrap you in these unworthy arms.** _

_**Teach me to hope once more.** _

The man in the crimson armor stiffened, choked, as if taken with a fit. Nightbird's song broke off. She watched, wary, as Estinien's body seemed to twitch like a badly operated puppet.

The dragon's voice was twinned with Estinien's when his mouth opened. _Thy song hath brought the fire back to his spirit,_ Nidhogg hissed _. How he struggles, that he might save thee_.

She set aside her harp and stretched her hands out towards him. “Please...don't hurt him.”

_Dost thou think thy paltry offering worthy of a boon, then, singer?_

“I think that if you were going to kill him, you would have done it already. I think that you want more of his suffering to soothe your rage. And,” she took a deep breath. “And I am willing to _beg_ of you, to loose your grip on him and let me speak to him.” She went to her knees and bowed her head; her voice shook. “Please, you terrible, unstoppable calamity, stay your vengeance for an hour more.”

A pleased rumble emanated from all around her. And then, a cruel chuckle. _I shall take delight in his pain as well as thine, for he thinks to break free of me for thy sake. The struggle shall be entertaining. I grant thy request, singer._

The dark aether subsided, and the man in the armor sank to his knees, gasping for breath. She stared at him, waiting.

He yanked his helmet off, letting it clank and roll on the ground, and looked at her.

Though his beautiful eyes glowed red, and marks like fresh burns covered his face, there was no mistaking the spirit that looked out at her from within.

She ran to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing his head to her chest.

“Little bird,” he groaned against her. “Forgive me...”

“Sh, sh, sh,” she whispered. “It's all right.”

He held her tight, while her tears spangled his silver hair.

But soon he pulled back. “He won't give us much time.”

“I know.”

“The only way to end this is to kill me.”

She stepped away, uttering a tiny cry. “Estinien...no.” Her eyes were wide, her ears and tail down, and her voice shook. “Don't ask that of me.”

“He would murder you in an instant,” Estinien's voice was harsh, his eyes wild and miserable. “I cannot stop him. I can barely hold onto my soul. You must...”

“ _I can't!_ ” She balled her fists and screamed at him. “I can't kill you, you son of a bitch!”

He stared at her, his cheeks wet. “You would doom all of Ishgard for sentiment,” he rasped.

“Yes, yes I would! I don't love Ishgard! I love _you!_ ”

She went to her knees, her face in her hands, and wept.

“Don't ask it of me,” she begged him, her voice distorted.

Nidhogg watched, noting how the man's heart pounded, how his soul cried out. But as the woman began to weep, something stirred within the dread wyrm's memory.

Sentiment over duty. Kindness over expediency, mercy over elimination of the enemy.

Even as she had spoken directly to him, she had shown him no anger, no hate. Fear – and of course she feared him! He was terrifying and powerful and could kill her with less effort than she might use to swat a fly. But not hate. She was not of Ishgard – and clearly she knew the truths to which his enemy had become privy. And yet, why did she not hate him, if she knew?

Ratatoskr had been that way. Ever sentimental, endlessly kind. She never took insult, and only fought with great reluctance, to defend her children. She had not even fought her own murderers as she should have done. Her heart had been too open, too trusting, too pure.

His mind sank into memory, and his grip on his captive enemy loosened that much more.

Estinien's breath hitched as he felt the wyrm's presence recede. It wasn't gone. But he was...for the moment...closer to himself than he had been for weeks.

 _Do as thou wilt with her_ , came a whisper in the back of his mind.

He pulled off his gauntlets and tossed them away, and reached for Nightbird, moving closer to her without getting off his knees. “Don't cry,” he begged her, his voice cracking. “Don't cry.”

She leaned against him, her hands still covering her face. His armor clanked, and he cursed at it, peeling it off and tossing the pieces without heed or care. Only the vambraces remained – the accursed Eyes had fused through the armor and into his flesh, perhaps down into the bone.

At last, at last, she stopped crying, and looked up at him. “Estinien...?”

“I won't ask again.” He cupped her face in his hands. He knew he was weeping like a fool, but he no longer cared.

She wrapped her arms around him, her cheek against his chest, and he smoothed her hair.

“Are you...is he...?”

“No.” Estinien's hands wandered down her back, then returned to her hair. “I don't know what he's doing. But he isn't gone.” His body reacted to how she pressed against him, and he tried to repress it. Now was not the time...

“There has to be some other way,” she murmured as she tipped her head back to look at him. “I won't believe that your death is the only way out of this.”

“There well might be, but there is no time. He will not bide much longer before he strikes. And this time,” he swallowed, “this time there will be no quarter given. He means to sunder the city, little bird. There will not be two stones left standing together, before he is satisfied.”

“Such pain he must be in, that a thousand thousand lives taken does not soothe it.” She was whispering and yet her words hit him like a shout.

“How can you feel pity for that creature?”

She shook her head, and didn't answer. “Don't give up,” she begged him. “If I can't find another way, _someone_ can. Alphinaud must be frantic – and he is a scholar. You said he is brilliant, did you not? Surely he will be using that brilliant mind to find a way to help you.”

“I have no doubt that he is trying. Fool that he is.” Estinien's laugh was without humor. “And unless someone with more sense stops him, he'll hurt himself.”

“Then he is exactly like you,” she retorted. “Willing to endure anything for his friend.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “It's not possible,” he said, again. “The wyrm's claws are buried deep, Nightbird. He has me and he will not relinquish me. Killing me...”

“Don't you say it again.”

“Damn it, woman, don't you see what I've become?!” He gripped her jaw in his hand and held his arm up, almost pushing the Eye against her.

Her eyes streamed tears. To his astonishment, she turned her head to look at the disgusting growth on his arm, and then leaned her cheek against it. It twitched, and he hissed in discomfort, making her sit back up. But she caught his hand in hers and pressed her lips to his palm, and looked up into his eyes.

“I won't let him have you forever,” she told him quietly. “I'll find a way – I don't know what, but I will not rest until you are free.”

He sobbed. “Why? Only a fool would choose such a course.”

“I suppose because love makes fools of everyone,” she murmured. “And I love you, Estinien.”

The words had jolted him the first time. This time they poured over him like cool water against a burn, and for an instant everything else was washed away.

He cradled her face in his hands. “Say it again.”

She put her hands over his. “I love you.”

Self-control shattered. He took her mouth with his, his arms sliding around her, crushing her to him. She responded, sweetly as always, warm and pliant, molding her body to his.

“I never wanted to see you crying,” he whispered against her mouth. “Fury take me for a damned fool. I should never have touched you, and I am so sorry, little bird...”

“Shut up,” she wept, even as her hands slipped downward, busy with the ties of his pants.

He couldn't make himself stop her. Everything in him yearned for her, a longing made all the sharper by the fear that this would be the last time he felt her touch, and by the terror that Nidhogg might take back control if they didn't hurry.

The feel of her hands on his member nearly made him explode. He yanked his pants down past his hips and his groans took on a begging tone as his hands kneaded her buttocks.

He heard fabric rip and then she was climbing into his lap, pushing him back so that he sat on his heels, her legs going around his waist. He held her to him and steadied her as she speared herself on his cock. They both groaned, loud and shameless, when he was fully inside of her.

She rode him, and he helped her along. She rained kisses on him, and between her gasps and cries of pleasure she murmured over and over of her love for him.

Too soon. It was too soon, but he couldn't control it, couldn't contain it. His head went back and his eyes shut as he came inside her, and she screamed his name, bouncing on his cock, her nails pricking the skin of his shoulders.

When it was over, he was still buried inside of her, and he brought his head back to nuzzle her neck. They were both shuddering and sweaty despite the chill air. For an instant, he let himself hope: that Alphinaud's genius mind might yet find a way to free him, that somehow Nidhogg might yet be vanquished, that Ishgard might yet be saved. Let himself hope that he might yet have a future with this incredible woman, whom he loved so very much.

_**...to hope...** _

Hope was a mistake.

Estinien felt Nidhogg's resurgence, but he didn't even have time to open his eyes or cry a warning.

 _Now thou shalt know torment sweeter than any I might have devised alone_ , the wyrm growled. _I shall teach thee better than to hope for mercy_.

Estinien was locked in the darkness again, permitted to see and nothing more. As he felt the dragon's intentions, he began to scream.

Nightbird felt the change in him, and knew she was in trouble.

The marks on his skin flared, and his eyes glowed red. His hands on her were no longer gentle. Even his scent changed.

She sat back and looked into those mad, crimson eyes, and this time she looked directly into the dragon's soul. Her hand came up to stroke his cheek. “So much pain,” she murmured. “So much grief. No wonder you are mad.”

He growled. But she didn't flinch. “Only the greatest of love could fuel such great rage and sorrow.” She leaned up to put her cheek against his. “”You poor, suffering creature. How magnificent you must have been, once. How horribly maimed you are, now.”

“ _Speak not to me thus, thou crawling worm. Thou canst not comprehend my mind. Sweet words will not save thee._ ” The voice was twinned once more, mockery edging each word.

“Of course words won't save me. I don't seek mercy of you. I know you have not the capacity. There is no room for anything but rage in you, as you are now. I grieve for you.”

“ _How dare.._.”

“Because seeing how great your love for her was, how much more magnificent must your sister have been? How much has the world lost, for lack of her? It is enough to break any heart.”

“ _Do not say such things to me!_ ”

“Why? How can the words of a crawling worm harm you?” She met his eyes again. “How can the tears of a mere mortal cause you pain?”

Nidhogg stared at the female, incensed and yet deeply shaken. No one had ever spoken in such a way to him...no one but Ratatoskr herself. He inhaled to berate her once more and paused.

A scent – a hint of familiarity – no. No, it could not be so. She was a mortal. She had no business smelling like a dragon.

His whole body shook for a moment. He hadn't caught this scent in a thousand years. There was no way some upstart mortal could... _no!_ He would not have it!

He writhed, keeping her pinned. His vessel's limbs move sluggishly as the fool dragoon fought Nidhogg's will, but the wyrm's power overwhelmed that stubborn spark. He moved the two of them until he had her on her back. Still mated together, he felt the animal side of the body he rode rejoicing in the sensations. And he felt, even more keenly, the panic in Estinien's soul.

He set his knees and thrust, once, and not gently, staring into the face his enemy loved.

Tears stood in her eyes, but there was no fear.

“ _I shall hear thee scream in agony,_ ” he snarled. “ _I shall rend thee, I shall rip thy flesh. Thou shalt plead for death and I shall deny thee. Cower, worm_.”

“You can only hurt my body,” she answered, though her voice shook. “And every wound you give me, you lay upon yourself as well. I would not see you suffer more, but I cannot prevent you.”

“ _HOW DARE YOU PITY ME!_ ”

He grabbed her wrists and slammed them to the ground above her head, hearing bone crack. She cried out, the tears running down her temples and matting her hair.

He thrust against her, hard, and she yelped again. Her ears were pinned back and her teeth were bared as she grimaced.

_Thou knowest nothing of me, of my sister, of my pain! Thou stupid, short lived little insect! I need not thy feeble kindness! Silence!_

“No,” she gasped, her words broken by the rhythm of his merciless pounding, “you – deserve kindness – even now – you should never – agh! – have lost your loved one – !”

Growling, he put his mouth over hers, a parody of a passionate kiss. _Thou shalt know the meaning of pain afore I silence thee forever!_

Though he himself felt no desire, no pleasure, the body he wore was increasingly excited, and that could not help but affect him in some minuscule way. Instinctively the body changed angle to maximize penetration and pleasure, and the result cascaded through all of him. Echoes of emotions felt with this flesh – even though they were not his own – fluttered through him like restless ghosts, awakening memories over a thousand years old.

In spite of himself he dropped his head to her shoulder, breath coming in harsh pants. Water leaked from his eyes, and he could not say whether they were Estinien's tears or his own.

She cried out once more, softly, and this time the word that passed her lips was not in her own tongue. She cried out his name – _his_ name, not her lover's name – in _his_ language. She cried out _his_ _name_ , with the inflections of sorrow and forgiveness. She cried out – a _nd her voice was Ratatoskr's voice_.

Rage and grief both swelled in him, but they were eclipsed by a rush of lust so powerful that he folded before it, and let dragon instincts take over. He sank his teeth into the meat of her shoulder, marking her, drawing blood. She screamed, high and terrified. Already close, his borrowed body climaxed as her blood coated his tongue.

But he could not bring himself to rend her flesh further. He rolled off of her, leaving her weeping on the ground, and stood up. He stamped around the clearing, picking up the scattered armor pieces and replacing them. By the time he was retrieving the helm, the woman had fallen silent.

He stalked over to her and toed her once. Her eyes opened and she stared blankly up at him for a moment. Then, she turned on her side and with difficulty, sat up. Any grace she had had earlier was gone. Her hair was full of dirt and grass, her clothes were stained, and blood spattered her skin. Tears marked her face. She shook all over, and her ears drooped.

He put the helmet on and then transformed, back into his full glory as the dread wyrm. He swung his head over her, growling, and gnashed his jaws once.

But she did not cry out, did not flinch. Instead she lay both her hands – tiny things, compared to him – on his snout, and once more his name crossed her lips, choked out on a sob. Her tears brought him no satisfaction. The howling from the man within held no savor.

He tore away from her, and flung himself into the sky.

_**I cannot stay.** _

_**Your weeping wounds me.** _

_**I cannot stay.** _

_**Forgive me beloved –** _

_**I cannot stay.** _

Nightbird staggered to her knees, then, to her feet. Her steps were unsteady as she slowly moved toward her pack. Warmth flowed down her leg, and slid down her back from the wound in her shoulder. Her clothes, already torn by her own hand, were ruined now, the tunic barely covering her.

She was silent, now, mouth clamped shut, refusing even to whimper. Not yet.

At last she reached the spot she had thought to make into a camp for the night. Her left hand would not respond to her, so she lit the fire one-handed, grateful in a distant sort of way for the fact that she had prepared this much before the dragon's arrival.

Fumbling with her pack and pouches, she finally dragged out the field kit she kept stocked with bandages and other necessities of healing. With a weary wrench of her mind, she activated her soul stone, awakening once more the ancient wisdom of the white mages. The spirit within the stone murmured in dismay, instantly perceiving her injuries.

First things first. She used her aether to energize herself, to make a bulwark against the pain. Thus fortified, she first splinted her left hand and wrist. It was a rude construction but it would have to do for now. She infused aether into the bones, concentrating fiercely to align the broken shards within the joints, to soothe and smooth the tendons strained just shy of tearing. She set wards around the bones to help keep them still, and wove a lesser enchantment to stave off the worst of that pain.

That was enough to let her clean herself.

Undressing was painful. She was used to being sore after making love with Estinien...or she had _thought_ she was accustomed. After several minutes of fumbling and muttered curses, she gave up on disrobing in any normal manner.

She took out her sharp little knife, and cut her remaining clothing off her body. Fortunately her boots were much simpler to remove. At last she stood naked to the sky, the cold wind scouring her skin.

She sighed as she surveyed the blue-on-black splotches on her upper arms. But before she treated any other wounds, she took up a cloth and walked to the small stream on the other side of her fire. She washed herself, grimly enduring the excruciating pain not only of the cleansing but of the ice cold water stinging along every cut. The water flowed pink for a few moments. The cloth needed several times of rinsing before all the crimson washed away.

Only then did she return to her fire, to bandage what she could, and pull on clean, warm, loose clothing. She forced herself to eat a portion of the intensely sweet chocolates that she kept for times when her energy was depleted. The effort of chewing wearied her almost too much to bank her fire.

She wrapped herself in her blanket and lay on her bedroll. The stars burned in the sky, as they always did, but she did not pay them any heed. Instead, she shut her eyes, and began to pray.

Her prayers shaped her healing magic, and she poured the energy into her own body, accelerating what nature would do on its own. Her intent and power centered on her violated womb. Cut and torn skin closed over, the lingering ache of bruised flesh was soothed away. And one thing more.

Searing pain flared in her gut, fire and lightning together scouring her insides. There would be no blood, and no possibility of the seed that had been spilled into her taking root. She was too near to her time of heat. She would not risk it.

As the spell faded and the pain rolled over her, Nightbird began to cry. For herself, for Estinien, and for the tortured creature that had hurt them both.


	21. Harmonic Oscillation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird returns to Ishgard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, Pale and Felina guest star once more. Both characters belong to the incomparable [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville)

Two chocobos labored through the sky above the Dravanian Hinterlands.

The wind rushed through Felina's hair. The poor bird she rode flapped its wings as fast as it could, but couldn’t quite manage to keep pace with Pale’s larger one.

“Felina, hurry!” he yelled back at her.

“I’m trying!”

They had been in the middle of a meal when Pale turned his head, as if straining to hear something in the distance. The near constant thread of the dragon that had attached itself to him had suddenly quieted. That’s what he’d told her at least. She’d continued her meal watching him as he sat still - ‘listening.’ Then suddenly he had pushed violently away from the table, his eyes wide with a sort of terror she’d never seen in him before. “We have to go!”

He’d grabbed her up by the arm, and they had fled out into the cold.

 _Something bad was happening_. That’s all he would tell her, and so she raced behind him, coaxing her exhausted bird along with what healing magic she could muster for the poor thing. They flew up to an outcropping high above the valley floor, when Felina spotted her.

“Nightbird!” She landed her bird right on the heels of Pale’s own, and flung herself off the mount. The smell hit her senses like a stone wall. “No…” Rage swelled in her chest. She knew now why Pale had not told her what he sensed. Her friend lay curled and battered on her side by the fire. Pale started to reach for the dark Miqote, but Felina held out a staying arm. “Don’t touch her. Not now.”

She knelt slowly beside her friend and spoke her name softly. “Nightbird, it’s Felina. I’m here.”

Nightbird stirred, then her eyes opened. They were red from weeping. “F-F-Felina…? How…”

“Pale can sense Nidhogg. We’ve been tracking his movements when we can. He sensed something...” She took a deep breath. “Something bad. And we came as fast as we could.”

“He’s gone...now…” Nightbird’s eyes seemed to look through her friend. “Estinien... _isn’t_ dead...but I…” Her breath caught and she shuddered, clutching the blanket tighter around herself.

“We’ll find him, and we’ll get him back.” Felina said it with a confidence she didn’t feel. She really didn’t know what they were supposed to do against something so powerful. Could Estinien even be disentangled from the dragon who had taken his body? It didn’t matter now. She’d figure that out later. For now, she needed to take care of her friend. She reached out her hand in offering. “I can do some healing for you. Ease some of your hurts for the moment.”

“Just...tired…” But Nightbird didn’t try to stop Felina. She seemed to be in a lot of pain.

“Okay…” She reached out brushing her fingertips through dark strands filled with dirt and leaves. A cooling wave washed over the injured woman, seeping into the aches and bruises all along her body. Felina murmured a song as she passed her energy along and through the other woman.

Snow had given the two their space. Gods know the last thing Nightbird needed was another man nearby. He shuddered at the knowledge of what had taken place, and that they’d been too late to prevent it. He fought down a wave of nausea as he wandered the outcropping, scanning the area for any clues that might be helpful in bringing the dragon down. Perhaps he could at least try to bring the monster to justice.

There were traces of the wyrm’s aether, but it was nothing he did not already know. He noticed with some concern the signs that physical transformations had taken place. Nidhogg was, then, warping Estinien’s flesh - at least in part - to take on his own form. It was known to the heretics that draconic transformations, undertaken recklessly, could go very wrong - or could remain in place permanently. He decided he ought not to tell Nightbird that fact.

He looked over at the two women, feeling of very little use. At the very least he’d brought the healer-bard to her. What they could do from here, though, was anyone’s guess.

Nightbird shut her eyes, and let Felina’s voice and her magic soak in. The simple song soothed her as her tears had not done. She was _not_ alone, and she clung to that knowledge with all her might, holding it in her heart right beside the tenuous thread that still allowed her to know Estinien’s soul yet persisted.

She drifted, halfway between dreams and waking, listening to her friend sing lullabies into the night.

*

Morning came as the sun slid over the horizon to the east. It would have been beautiful if the surrounding earth didn’t bear the scars of the previous night’s events. Snow sat looking at the horizon, trying his best to ignore the scene. Felina slept soundly. He’d finally convinced her to let him take watch late into the evening, but now the dark Miqote stirred, stealing his attention from the dawn.

Nightbird sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall away, and immediately shivered. She got up from the bedroll, moving stiffly - she hadn’t moved an inch all night and her limbs felt heavy and tingly from lack of circulation. She rummaged in the pack that lay at the foot of the bedroll, and finally tugged a second shirt out of it, slipping the shirt over her head without ceremony. Only then did she notice Pale sitting there, and paused, blinking at him. “I did not realize you were here too.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that isn’t...I am glad to see you.”

She had to bite her tongue, or she would have called him by his old name, the name she still thought of as _being_ him. She never had gotten a clear explanation about what had made him join the heretics and change his name. She wasn’t sure what magic Y’Shtola could have worked to wreak such alterations…

He turned to look at her and smiled - the smile of an acquaintance. “You can call me Pale if you want. She does.” He nodded toward Felina, still fast asleep. “She tries not to, but she can’t seem to help herself. Apparently we knew each other… before.”

“We did.” Nightbird set her hand over her mouth, uncertain if she should talk about such matters.

He let out a quiet laugh. “It’s okay. I suspected as much.” His eyes drifted over the sleeping Miqote and softened. “I’m not sure what to think though.”

Nightbird hugged herself a little, remembering another morning, another place. “The three of us were…” She hesitated. “We were close, once. Long ago.” She shook her head once more. “I don’t really know what to think either.” Trying for a lighter mood, she looked at him and asked, “I don’t suppose it would be possible to do more than have a little tea, would it? I find I’m very hungry.”

He let out a relieved breath. Finally he could do something helpful. “I’ll make us some breakfast then.” He got to his feet and dug around in his pack. He tended to keep rations on hand just in case. Inside was some bread, cheese, and an apple along with a tin of coffee and a water-skin. He poked the fire and added a bit more wood.

Silently, Nightbird handed over a small cooking pot, and a small bag. “I bought these yesterday, they ought to still be sound.” The bag, as it turned out, contained four eggs.

Pale eyes the bag’s contents. “Ah, we can have a proper breakfast then… Eggsellent.”

Nightbird rolled her eyes, but she laughed.

The Elezen looked ever so slightly proud of himself despite Nightbird’s expression. He set about scrambling the eggs and broke the bread into three somewhat equal pieces. He set a small camp percolator over the fire as well and threw in some coffee grounds and poured in some water. Into the cooking pot he poured just a little water, and placed the eggs into it to cook. He drew out a small pocket knife to slice up the cheese, and then peeled the apple in his hand as the rest of the meal cooked.

All the while Felina continued to sleep. Pale eyed her and laughed. “She’s a heavy sleeper once she’s finally out.”

Nightbird smiled. “She always has been.” She leaned over, and gently shook Felina’s shoulder.

“Mmmm….” Felina grumbled.

“Wake up, dear,” Nightbird chuckled.

“Huh?” She blinked at the morning light and yawned before sitting up suddenly. “Nightbird! By the gods. Are you okay?!”

Nightbird’s smile bent a little bit. “As well as can be expected, my friend. I have you to thank for feeling as well as I do.” She nodded toward the fire. “Come and eat.”

Felina rubbed the sleep from her eyes and reached out to squeeze the other woman’s hand before doing as she’d been told. She took a seat by the fire and watched Pale as he finished peeling the apple, the skin coming off in one complete spiral. She smiled. “You still remember how to do that.”

He shrugged. “I must have learned it in a past life.”

Felina only smiled and nodded. Once the eggs were ready, the three ate in silence. The company was comforting in an old familiar kind of way. Pale handed out apple slices to end the meal before getting up to put away and pack the things.

Felina scooted over to sit next to Nightbird, patting her back. “We’ll get back to Ishgard soon, okay?” She gave her a quick but gentle squeeze and got up to help pack. She’d been tempted to offer some sort of comment about how everything would be okay, but she couldn’t bring herself to offer such trite words in the face of everything that had happened.

Nightbird tended to her own things, seeming fine so long as Felina did not look too closely at the way her eyes would glaze over, the way she would pause in the middle of something for just a little too long, the tremble that remained in her aether.

Once the packing was done, Felina called out Nightbird’s stowed chocobo and helped her mount. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

*

Once they reached the city, Felina took her friend straight to Fortemps Manor. The two of them went in through the servants’ entrance, and no one noticed them. Nightbird walked with Felina beside her along the quiet corridors of the family level, and finally into her suite.

She set down her pack, and for a moment just stood, looking around the room with a dull stare. Then she turned to Felina and hugged her. “Thank you. I think...I will take a bath. Then rest.”

Felina nodded and squeezed her hand. “I’ve got a friend in Durendaire manor. Send for me if you need me, okay?”

“Yes.” Nightbird hugged her one more time, then let her go.

She took a change of clothing with her into the bathing chamber, and soaked for a time in the big tub. She did not actively think; instead she sat in the water and concentrated hard on that fragile bond between her soul and Estinien's. It remained unbroken, and for a wonder, untainted by the dragon's presence. If he succumbed...

No. She would not think that. She could not allow herself to contemplate such.

She got out of the tub, and roughly dried herself, then dressed. Only after she'd done, did she actually notice what clothing she had chosen.

Her eyes stung as she regarded the dark blue embroidery on the hem of the skirt. It was a new one, one she had made in Estinien’s favorite colors, adding the embroidery in a shade that nearly matched his eyes. She had meant to wear this outfit for him when he returned home…

For an instant she considered taking it off and getting rid of it. Her heart felt scorched by the bitter fear that he might not be coming home after all. She struggled with that fear once again, knowing it would not be the last time.

When at last she had won out over the urge to give up, the urge to cry, she took a long breath, and straightened her back. She lifted her head, and marched out into the hallway.

*

She tapped on Alphinaud's door, and waited.

He opened it; when he saw her, he immediately stepped back. “Nightbird – come in, please.”

She stepped into the room and he shut the door behind her. She glanced around and noticed how untidy the room was. He had been working non-stop for days now, it seemed. She was not sure just how many different projects he was attempting to complete at once. He looked tired as he turned to her.

“How did you journey go – ” he began, and stopped mid sentence. His eyes went wide as he stared at her face. “Are you – Nightbird, what happened to you?”

“I saw Estinien,” she told him. Her voice was quiet, steady, without inflection. She didn't meet his eyes.

Alphinaud's mouth opened and shut, and he regarded her with a deeply troubled expression. At last, he said, “Please, Nightbird. Tell me what you saw.”

“Nidhogg sought me out in the Hinterlands. He shifted, in my sight, from dragon to man. He wears Estinien's body like a garment.” She paused, and knotted her hands in her skirt for a moment.

“Wears his body...” Alphinaud looked as if he might be ill.

“I...” Nightbird swallowed hard. “I also saw Estinien. He is still...alive. Trapped, inside the dragon's soul. I...I...”

She lost her composure. “I spoke with him, Alphinaud. He begged me to kill him.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I told him that we would save him.” Now, she met Alphinaud's gaze, seeing the stricken look on his face.

“Did I lie to him, Alphinaud? Is it even possible...?”

“I...cannot say for certain.” The young scholar frowned. “But – your injuries – what...?”

“Nidhogg...hurt me, yes. Using Estinien's body. I...do not wish to discuss it.”

Alphinaud's lips moved, silently echoing her words, and he raised one hand, uncertainly reaching for her. “Is there anything I can...?”

“Find a way,” she answered. “Find a way to save him, Alphinaud. I...I beg of you.”

She held to her composure by the thinnest of threads as the scholar shook his head.

“I wish I could say that there is a way,” he told her. “But the truth is, I simply do not know enough to make any sort of guess as to what may be done.” He nibbled on a fingernail, and eyed her with a faint look of hope. “I don't suppose you can tell me anything about his aether?”

“Nidhogg's aether was overwhelming, for the most part,” Nightbird answered, her voice beginning to shake. “He made of it a wall around the place where he found me. But I was able to perceive Estinien's essence within that black maelstrom. And when the wyrm allowed him to speak...” She took a deep breath. “In that moment, the dragon's aether seemed reduced, but I suppose that was only because Nidhogg willed it so.”

Alphinaud was silent for a minute, thinking hard. Then, he looked up. “I have a few ideas,” he said at last. “And I shall endeavor to investigate them. But I think you should rest. You...forgive me, but you look terrible.” His brows knitted as he gazed at her. “Perhaps I can send a message to Y'Shtola...?”

“No, thank you.” Nightbird's smile was sickly. “I have healing magic of my own, remember. There is nothing she can do for me that I cannot do for myself. But I appreciate your concern.”

He continued to frown at her for a long moment. Then, he sighed. “Very well. I will keep you apprised of my research, should I find anything useful or promising.”

“I will...keep my ears open,” Nightbird said, with a small sigh. “There is little else I can do. I shall not leave the city again for some time.” She shivered. “I do not wish a second...interview...with the wyrm.”

“Nightbird...” Alphinaud reached for her shoulder, his voice worried.

“I will go and rest, now,” she interrupted him, stepping away. “I am still fatigued. But I wanted to tell you what I could.”

Turning, she opened the door, and fled.

*

She had not fibbed to Alphinaud. She _had_ rested. It was rest only in the form of lying on her bed, however. She had alternated between an inner focus on her aetheric bond with Estinien, and a sort of mental “picking at the wound,” going over what Nidhogg had said again and again, as if she might draw some vital shred of information from those memories. She had drifted in and out of wakefulness, and had not eaten.

When at last she came fully to her senses late in the morning, she found a large tray on her sitting room table, laden with butter and jam and the fluffy croissants of which Nightbird was very fond, as well as a pair of apples and a wedge of tangy yellow cheese. Quite a substantial amount of food; Penelope must have heard that she had not eaten.

Placed prominently among the dishes stood a folded paper: a message from Lord Edmont. An invitation – more like a gentle insistence – for Nightbird to join them for tea in the afternoon. The careful phrasing made it plain that he knew she had been hurt.

Alphinaud must have told him, she realized. She sighed. Three days ago, perhaps she would have been irritated with the young scholar for such presumptuous behavior, or annoyed with the hint of worry in Lord Edmont's note. But now...it was all just more effort than she could muster.

She read the note a second time, then set it down and picked up a piece of fruit. She contemplated whether or not to comply, while rather absently devouring much of the cold breakfast before her. She was finishing the last croissant by the time she finally decided she would do as Lord Edmont asked. After all, tea was never a very loud affair even when there were guests.

She got up, and began the slow and careful process of making herself presentable.

Maybe this would do her good, and chase away the screaming shadows lurking in the corners of

her mind.

The tea things were somewhat augmented; but since Aymeric was Lord Edmont's guest today, it was plain why there were so many extra pastries. Nightbird nibbled on a piece of cheesecake and sipped her tea and tried not to shift her weight with discomfort. She did not quite understand why Lord Edmont had placed her directly across from him, as if she were in any way deserving of such honor. But neither Alphinaud, sitting to her left, nor Aymeric to her right, had so much as batted an eye. She listened, silently, as the three men spoke.

“Artoirel tells me,” Edmont was saying, “that at last, session within the House of Lords have taken on a semblance of order.”

“In another week,” Aymeric smiled, his tone dry, “they might even get something accomplished.” He sipped his tea. “How goes Lord Emmanellain's training?”

“He is no longer complaining to me, which I take to mean that Berylla is making certain he is too exhausted to do so.” The old lord's eyes twinkled. “That, or she has stolen his link-pearl.”

Aymeric chuckled and took another pastry.

“Your recovery continues apace, I presume?” Alphinaud asked the Lord Speaker. The scholar had dark circles under his eyes, and she wondered if Lord Edmont had also gently insisted that the young man take a break.

“As well as might be expected,” Aymeric nodded. “Though Captain Whitecape is less displeased about my work-load, he still refuses to allow me to truly exercise.” A bare hint of petulance flashed across the Lord Speaker's face. “I _must_ be in fighting condition soon, if I am to take the field for the Grand Melee.” He devoured his pastry in three quick bites.

“You will be ready in time, my lord, I am certain of it,” Alphinaud soothed. He looked over at Edmont. “Speaking of healing, how fares Honoroit?”

Edmont smiled. “The boy is quite enjoying his convalescence. His latest letter to me went on at length about the pleasant surroundings and the,” he laughed quietly, “ _most kind ministrations_ of the folk tending to him.” His eyes gleamed a little. “Given that most of his minders are also entertainers for the Bronze Lake resort there...”

“Oho!” Aymeric grinned. “The lad is kicking up his heels, is he?”

“It is _most_ fortunate,” Edmont chortled, “that I already made sure no one tells Emmanellain any details about the boy's recovery. He would be dead of envy.”

The two older men laughed once more. Then Aymeric turned his attention to Nightbird. “I do hope your own injuries are healing well?”

She blinked at him, then glanced down at her teacup. So Alphinaud – or Edmont – had told him as well.

“...As well as might be expected,” she murmured after a moment.

Alphinaud set one hand on her arm and squeezed gently.

“It seems to me,” Aymeric said, before the silence around the table congealed into something awkward, “that having work to do often takes one's mind off the tediousness of a prolonged recuperation.”

She shook her head slightly. “I have little desire for adventure,” she began. “I had not planned to leave the city...”

“Ah,” Aymeric interrupted, “but what of music?”

She looked up at him, her eyes questioning. Surely he knew that the rehearsal spaces and the concert hall of Fortemps Manor were still under construction. What was he talking about?

“Specifically,” the Lord Speaker of Ishgard smiled, “What would you think of becoming the Songstress Laureate of Ishgard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for working with me on this chapter!


	22. Laureate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offer Nightbird can barely believe...

“What would you think of becoming the Songstress Laureate of Ishgard?”

Nightbird stared at the Lord Speaker, brow furrowed. “I am afraid I do not quite follow, my lord.”

“Ishgard needs more than just the Grand Melee to restore her spirits,” Aymeric told her. “Outsiders see only an insular society; our isolation has done us no favors in terms of public image. The idea of Ishgard – in the hearts and minds of her people as well as in the eyes of outsiders – is badly in want of...polishing.” He spread his hands. “I would have our people embrace more than just our military heritage, and I would change the perceptions of those beyond our borders to something much more approachable.”

Nightbird regarded him. He was quite serious about this. “And you would do this with music?”

“With cultural exchanges,” Aymeric clarified, “starting with music.” His eyes began to glitter as he warmed to his topic. “Eventually, I hope to build a Grand Conservatory of the arts here in Ishgard. Primarily focused on music to begin, but aiming to encompass much more.”

Despite her lethargy, Nightbird's ears pricked up. A conservatory...

“A grand design indeed,” Alphinaud observed, with a slight smile. “Such an institution could potentially rival the Conservatory of Sharlayan...given enough time.”

“It is not a goal to be swiftly reached,” Aymeric nodded. “I fully acknowledge that. But then, neither is my goal of truly becoming allies with the Dravanians once more.” His eyes remained on Nightbird. “But the foundations could be laid now, and I know of someone whose aid would be invaluable in that effort. Someone whose aid I hope to enlist in the establishment of this vision of mine.”

The Miqote sat up straighter. “You cannot mean _me?!_ ”

“Who else in Ishgard has the breadth of knowledge?” His gaze was keen. “Who else has the background, the training, the contacts? No one among the Holy See, and none among our court musicians either. Certainly no one among our common minstrels and tavern bards.”

Nightbird's eyes were wide. “Ser Aymeric...I...” She spluttered and fell silent, astonished. Her tail lashed in agitation and her ears swiveled, indecisive and flustered.

“You do not need to decide right now,” he soothed. “In fact I would be very happy to discuss the idea with you in detail, as time permits. For now, Miss Kevala, all I ask is that you think on the notion. Perhaps you will see more ways in which Ishgard can...hm, reintroduce herself to the rest of Eorzea.”

“...I...I will do that,” Nightbird swallowed. “It truly is a most ambitious goal.”

“But not an impossible one.”

Something in his tone made her meet his eyes. She saw, then, his compassion – not pity, but understanding. That, and a steady faith that, for a moment, warmed the cold places in her heart.

He truly believed in her; believed she would recover from her wounds, just as much as he believed she could take on this so-ambitious undertaking. His faith in her bolstered her own belief, and strengthened her.

She nodded slowly. “Not impossible.”

When he smiled at her, she was able to smile back. A small smile, to be sure – but a real smile, the first such she had managed since the last time she had seen Estinien.

*

She spent the next few days buried in the manor's archives, losing herself somewhat in a search for any sort of precedent to the idea Ser Aymeric had proposed. Alphinaud had also been diving into the archives on his own searches – for a day or two. After that, someone or other had ambushed him and dosed him into sleep, forcing him to take a break before he collapsed from exhaustion.

When Nightbird had looked in on him, he had been grumbling and writing letters. Quite a few of them. She had left him to it, reassured that he would at least pace himself better.

A week had passed since her meeting with Nidhogg, when Lord Edmont called her to him once more.

“I know you said you did not want to leave the city,” Edmont said. “But I wish to send you with Master Alphinaud.”

“Where is Alphinaud going?” Nightbird asked.

They were sitting in the old lord's study, with him at his desk as usual, and Nightbird in the comfortable leather wing chair nearby.

“He has quite a few places on his list, actually.” Edmont stroked his chin. “Most of them involve matters of his own to which he must attend, but I have prevailed upon him to act as my messenger as well. Since he shall be in the vicinity as it were, such errands ought to be simple enough to accomplish.”

“And why do you wish me to accompany him?”

“Because,” Edmont sat forward and set a scroll on the desk in front of her, “you have inquiries of your own to make.”

She took up the scroll and unrolled it, scanning the contents. Names and addresses – of every prominent musician and teacher of music in the entire Alliance.

After a minute she looked up. “You want me to visit _all_ of these people?”

“All of them that you feel may have pertinent information,” he smiled. “After all, it would not do to make a decision as monumental as accepting Ser Aymeric's – hmm, shall we say, _job offer_ – without doing at least a little research. Traveling with Alphinaud lets you do so more swiftly than sending out letters.” He gave a soft chuckle.

She gazed at the scroll again. “A feasibility study of sorts...” She trailed off, and then met his eyes. “You favor his notion, don't you?”

“My dear, I suggested it. Though I confess I did not expect that Aymeric would place you at the pinnacle of his grand plan, I did hope there might be a place for you in it.” He reached across the desk to pat her hand. “I would be happier if you had options which allow you to remain in Ishgard.”

“My lord...” she began, then when he frowned slightly, corrected herself. “Uncle. While I am very flattered, I – I do not know if I have the proper qualifications to – to – ”

The sheer immensity of the notion Aymeric had presented to her stole her breath once more. To guide an entire nation towards a new identity...even if it was more a rediscovery of their roots... It was insane, astounding, impossible, utterly outrageous...completely captivating. It made her heart race and her head ache. A _lifetime_ of work. Words failed her.

But Edmont smiled. “There are no set qualifications, as such,” he told her. “After all, this job, this position that he intends to create, has never existed here in Ishgard. I'm not certain it exists anywhere. Aymeric and Alphinaud have both been discussing it for a time. If Alphinaud's to be believed, even the Sharlayans do not have a single person guiding their Conservatory.”

“No, there is a council of seven,” Nightbird answered, almost absently.

“Aymeric was most impressed with your work for Haurchefant's memorial, and for the celebration of our rejoining the Alliance.” Edmont patted her hand again. “If nothing else,” he added, “this journey should give you enough insights to make an informed decision.”

She ducked her head, still a little nonplussed at the affection he showed her. Then, she nodded. “Very well. I will do as you ask.” Then she frowned slightly. “Will Alphinaud welcome my presence? These inquiries will take time; will I not slow him up?”

“Not at all. I already spoke with him, and he is well pleased to have your company. I believe he hopes also to act as a kind of bodyguard for you.”

“Oh.” She might have objected to such a notion a month ago. Now, she simply shook her head. Let them worry over her a little. She was too tired to stop them, so long as they did not attempt to lock her away “for her own good.”

She sat up a little, and asked, “What is our itinerary, then, my lord Uncle?”

*

Their first stop was Bronze Lake.

Honoroit was indeed in fine fettle, thoroughly pleased with his lot. Cooed over by pretty women, and fairly well pampered, the boy could only have looked more smug if he had nicked a pirate king's treasure.

He was still fairly wrapped in bandages, with a cast on his left arm, and one on the lower part of his left leg; some of his sunny mood was surely due to the strong painkillers he was being given. Nightbird took a brief look at him herself, and saw that while it might be four more weeks before the casts could come off, he truly was recovering very well. She ruffled his hair fondly. “I am most glad to see you feeling so well, you young charmer. Don't break any hearts, hm?”

“But of course, my lady,” he grinned. She smiled in answer, and let him alone to enjoy the sun.

Alphinaud finished speaking with the healer overseeing Honoroit's recuperation, and only then noticed that Nightbird had wandered off a bit, across the wide round platform that surrounded the aetheryte. She was standing with her arms crossed, gazing out over the lake.

He approached her, making certain not to be too quiet so as not to startle her.

“Is everything all right?”

She looked over at him. “Hm? Oh...yes, I'm fine. Just...” Her eyes returned to the water. “Just remembering.”

“Oh?” He stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I own a small plot of land near here,” she told him. “A long time ago, I...had hoped to live there. An old dream, if you will.”

“Living on one's own land seems like quite a pleasant dream.” His eyebrows rose. “Do you wish to go there now? Our tasks here are done, after all.”

“Oh,” she waved her hand vaguely, “I wouldn't want to bore you.”

“If you do not object,” he ventured, “I would like to see the spot.”

She eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “Well...all right.”

The cabin was a shambles. It had not been in excellent condition to begin with, but now...

The unevenly thatched roof had fallen in, and the door had buckled. Most of the wooden parts were rotting away in the damp, but it was still obvious how poorly built it had all been.

Alphinaud's hand was over his mouth as he gazed at it. His shoulders began to shake.

Nightbird sighed tolerantly. “You can laugh.”

“I...mean no offense...haha...my apologies.”

“We didn't know the first thing about building,” she answered with a small, fond, but sad smile.

Alphinaud, finished with laughing, cleared his throat and started towards the wrecked cabin. “We?” he asked as Nightbird followed him.

They walked around the outside of the place, neither of them willing to chance going inside, with the falling roof. “I believe you know a bit about the Crystal Tower, yes?”

“A very little bit,” Alphinaud nodded. “Berylla was involved for a short time.”

“I worked with the Sons of Saint Coinach for quite some time on the excavation,” she said. “In large part because my...because G'raha Tia was working on it. We were...” She swallowed. Even now, the old pain rose in her and tried to close her throat. “We were very close, he and I.”

Alphinaud frowned in thought. “I read a report stating that G'raha Tia was missing in action.”

“That is the official version, yes.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “He locked himself in the Tower in order to seal it away from potential misuse.”

Alphinaud paused, concerned by the clipped tone of her words. He looked over at her, and saw the pain in her eyes.

“If...if this is too painful, Nightbird...”

“No.” She sighed, and shook her head, letting her arms fall to her sides. “It hurts, yes, but it is an old pain. It is good to see this place again. It holds happier memories...” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment her eyes were far away.

Alphinaud looked away, giving her time with her feelings, and returned his attention to the structure before them.

After a little while, he cleared his throat. “The stone portions of this place seem quite solid.”

“The stone parts were here when I bought the land,” she answered, a hint of laughter in her voice. “I'm sure that old man thought he was cheating me. I still feel, as I did then, that this place was worth every coin I gave him for it.”

He looked at her, and saw she was smiling. He smiled back.

An idea took root in his mind as he followed Nightbird back to their chocobos. While they took off to continue on their journey, the idea grew, and before they had come down from the upper reaches of La Noscea, it had blossomed.

He smiled into the wind. Aymeric was going to like this idea.


	23. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescuing Estinien from Nidhogg's grasp is going to be a lot more complicated than they thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pale and Felina return once more! They belong to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) !

When Nightbird and Alphinaud returned to Ishgard, they were tired, but smiling. Their journey had done Nightbird a remarkable amount of good, not least because she had been too busy to dwell on recent events. Sessions of gentle healing every evening had restored her physical well being almost completely. They parted ways at the airship landing, as Alphinaud headed for Fortemps Manor to report to Lord Edmont, and Nightbird went instead to seek out Ser Aymeric, for her own report.

For a few days, all was quiet. Then, Alphinaud received a rather surprising message.

“ _Alphinaud, we need to talk. You, Nightbird, Pale, and I._

_We have an idea about how to save Estinien, but we don’t know if it’s possible._

_We are in great need of your expertise._

_We can meet in Nightbird’s suite at the Fortemps manor tomorrow evening._

_\- Felina”_

Alphinaud tapped on Nightbird’s door, and waited, nibbling on his thumbnail. He too had been racking his brain for ideas to help Estinien, and had come up with very little, despite Nightbird’s information. He had gotten to know the dark Miqote, after long conversations on the road; no longer was she merely an ally to him, but a friend. He understood, too, what harm she had come to, after all the healing he had done with her. His concerns had often distracted him from the vexing problem of rescuing a man from a possession that Alphinaud could not, as yet, understand.

He was not certain that he had any _expertise_ to offer on this matter. Then, Felina opened the door, and he put on his customary expression of confidence. He stepped inside, to see that the others were already there.

He faced Felina. “What have you learned? What ideas are you exploring?”

“Come. Have a seat.” She motioned over to the small table where Nightbird and Pale sat. Alphinaud followed her over and took a chair. Felina settled in beside Pale. “So, you were made aware of Pale’s connection to Nidhogg some time ago, right?”

Alphinaud nodded. “Indeed.”

“Well, by extension, that also connects him to Estinien. We were thinking if we could possibly create an aether link between them, perhaps we could send some sort of bolstering energy to him. Estinien’s in there, trying to break free, but on his own… it’s not looking good.”

Alphinaud bit his fingernail and considered. “Certainly aether linking can transfer energy, but...such links are not well suited to large amounts of energy flowing along them. They are too ephemeral - lasting only a few hours at most…”

Nightbird spoke, shifting in her seat. “The usual sort of links, yes. There are ways to establish a deeper link.”

Alphinaud looked at her, and his brows drew together. “Eh?”

“To put it crudely,” Nightbird tucked a bit of hair back into her braid, a gesture Alphinaud had learned meant she was a touch uncomfortable, “aether sex forms a much more robust and longer lasting link.”

Alphinaud’s face turned very, very pink. Even Felina turned a bit pink with Pale not far from the same color.

Felina spoke. “If I’m following correctly… You’re suggesting that you and…” She gestured at Pale not quite able to complete her sentence. “Because, I really don’t think he’s exactly in any position to screw the dragon!”

Nightbird shook her head, her smile strained. “No, he is not. But, do any of you know of a faster way to build the necessary link?”

Felina’s lips pressed together as she considered the table. “Well, I’m hoping perhaps Alphinaud might have a suggestion.” She turned to the younger Elezen, her brows raised in a sort of desperately imploring manner.

Alphinaud cleared his throat, and shook his head a little. “I’m afraid this is not an area of aetherology in which I did any particular study. I know some of the…” He paused, then looked over at Nightbird. “Some of the basics about such links, but only from a healer’s perspective. Nightbird...you don’t intend an aether _bond_ , do you?”

The dark Miqote shifted again in her seat. “Not between Pale and myself, no.”

Alphinaud’s eyes narrowed. There was something in her expression... An unpleasant suspicion burst into his thoughts. “What have you done, Nightbird?”

The songstress would not meet his eyes.

“Nightbird?” Felina watched discomfort wash over her friend. “Lady Leveva told me all she knew of aether links and bonds. She made me study it before I even attempted to practice with Pale…”

Nightbird looked away from them all as she answered. “I created an aether bond with Estinien.” She swallowed. “Not...with his consent. It is why Nidhogg found me, perhaps.”

Pale leaned forward. “What does that mean?”

Felina stared at her friend, incredulous. “She put a hole in her soul… to connect it to him… Nightbird, _why?!_ ”

Nightbird hung her head for a moment. “I can’t hold him, Felina. I...I wanted a way to at least know he was still alive. I did it the night before he went to fight Nidhogg in the Mists. I was…” She choked. “I was afraid for him.”

She covered her face with her hands. “I am sorry, give me but a moment…”

Felina wilted in her chair. “I… don’t know what to say… But what’s done is done now. I suppose we should use the situation to our advantage.”

Alphinaud looked as horrified as Felina. But his voice was angry. “Only because this _may_ be the sole path to saving Estinien am I willing to discuss this at all. But I am warning you, Nightbird.” His eyes were snapping now. “If you do not tell Estinien, if you do not discuss with him what you have done to him, _I will_.”

Nightbird leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and scrubbed at her face. “Noted.”

Pale looked between the two of them. “I can’t pretend to completely understand the extent of the wrong done here, but I can say without a doubt, that if I thought doing such would save the one I loved… I would do it in a heartbeat.” He reached over to squeeze the dark Miqote’s shoulder. “If this saves Estinien, at least he’ll be around for you to apologize to.” His voice dropped to a whisper by the time he finished speaking.

Nightbird put her hand over Pale’s and sniffled once. “I will look forward to his being angry with me, then.” Her chuckle was watery, but she scrubbed her face one more time and straightened. “I truly believe we are running out of time, even though no one has sighted Nidhogg in recent weeks. I don’t know if this feeling is coming from my bond with Estinien or not.”

Alphinaud spoke. “Finding the dragon is one problem, but this energy transfer is another matter entirely. I still question whether or not this notion can even work. However…” he sighed. “Reluctant as I am to do so, I will put you in contact with Krile. She studied far more intensively into the various ways that aether can be used for such links, and she was my senior in the Studium. She has much more experience than I in this subject.”

He reflected ruefully that he was going to have quite a time of explaining to the Lalafellin woman – and to Y'shtola, who would surely take an interest – without struggling to keep his composure. Of all the subjects he would never in his life have expected – or _wanted!_ – to discuss with either of those two... But he would endure the discomfiture.

Pale withdrew his hand, and turned to watch Felina as she stared intently at the wood grain of the small table. Nightbird couldn’t help but look between the two of them. Pale’s brows knit as he reached for the blonde Miqote’s hand. She looked up as he squeezed and gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She could only guess at their thoughts, but she hoped she would not hurt them both again in trying to reach her own love.

*

“The Grand Melee begins at noon,” Lord Edmont told the two of them. Alphinaud nodded. Nightbird folded her hands in her lap. Both of them sat across the desk from the old lord, and waited. They had both received messages late last night instructing them to come to Edmont's study directly after breakfast.

“I have had reports from Bronze Lake,” he continued, “and young Honoroit's recovery is complete – that is to say, he is recovered enough to resume his lighter duties. I had thought to send some friendly faces to retrieve him, rather than a pair of knights – if you are willing.”

Nightbird nodded. “I have no need to see the event,” she said, and then smiled slightly. “I am well aware of the ferocity and prowess of Ishgardian knights.”

“We can have him here in a few hours,” Alphinaud began, then paused when Lord Edmont raised one hand.

“No, I wish you to take a bit of time with it. Ideally, Honoroit's return should coincide just after the Grand Melee ends.” His smile was mischievous. “I have not informed Emmanellain of this.”

Alphinaud's eyebrows rose, and then he chuckled. “Very well, my lord.”

They both stood, and bowed, and then without exchanging a word, went their separate ways to prepare for travel. Then, they met up at the airship landing, just in time to embark upon the next vessel headed for La Noscea.

Once in the air, Alphinaud turned to Nightbird. “I have been thinking,” he said quietly, “about your proposed method of aiding Estinien.”

She did not meet his eyes, leaning on the rail and gazing out at the landscape. “You've been thinking about the aether bond.”

“...Yes. It concerns me, most gravely, Nightbird; as does the very notion of feeding aether to him. The risks are – incalculable.”

“I don't care.”

He frowned, and she turned to him, amber eyes glittering, her fangs slightly bared.

“I would sooner die than lose him, Alphinaud. There is no discussing the matter.”  
“And will you sacrifice Felina and Pale, as well, then?” He held her gaze steadily. “Will you do whatever it takes?”

She lifted her chin. “I will allow them to make their own decision in the matter. If they feel the risks are too great, then I will attempt to help him on my own. I won't abandon him.”

“Neither shall I,” Alphinaud set his hands on his hips, “but I do not like the idea of you throwing your life away...”

“He is as a brother to you, is he not?”

Alphinaud paused, taken aback by the sudden subject change. “Yes.”

“And would _you_ die for him?”

The young Elezen hesitated. She spread her hands.

“I understand your concern and I am glad of it, Alphinaud. But if Estinien were to die...I would have no life worth living. Not even this Songstress Laureate business would fill that void.” She turned away, gripping the rail tightly. “I do not intend to die uselessly, and I promise you that I will do all I can to safeguard myself and my friends. But I will not cease pursuing this line of investigation, this potential plan. I _cannot_.”

Alphinaud sighed. “I understand.”

They did not speak again until they arrived at Bronze Lake. There, Honoroit's ebullience lightened their grim mood considerably, and his chatter filled the silences and made them both smile.

When at last they reached Ishgard once more, Honoroit took off at a fast walk. They followed after him at a more decorous pace, and arrived in time to see Emmanellain greeting his manservant and friend with unreserved joy. Nightbird saw Berylla, and held herself back with an effort.

She remained in the shadows somewhat, and simply watched – the body language told her all she needed to know. She smiled a little, seeing the way Ser Aymeric swayed towards Berylla ever so slightly, and the way she responded to him, her eyes following him as if she were a flower and he, the sun. It was an entirely adorable little scene. She did not miss, either, the slight tension in Alphinaud's back. An entire drama, it seemed, delicately balanced and ready to fall over the edge and into full blown romance...or a bawdy song, perhaps. With Berylla, who knew?

But even at her distance she heard the Lord Speaker declare that the peace conference was on. She knew full well what that meant. If ever there was a situation nearly guaranteed to provoke Nidhogg into making an appearance...

*

Falcon’s Nest had a distinct gleam to it, when one looked at it with aether sight. A silvery white glitter outlined each stone, and the people were shadowy shapes, most of them a kind of muddy brown color - or rather, a swirl of so many colors that they blended together into that muddy shade. Around them all, more aether swirled, thinner than the clouds that floated high in the sky, as if trying to veil the sun. That aether grew thicker as the Lord Commander took to the stage, high above the plaza.

To physical sight, it was a striking picture. The white cloth draped over the wall made Aymeric’s blue and gold armor stand out; behind him and to his left, his Second was almost invisible by comparison.

When Vidofnir arrived, she did so with a minor storm of aether, her own energies interacting with the world around her. The crowd murmured, frightened and yet fascinated - here was a dragon, their ancient enemy, and yet here also was a creature so graceful and calm that it was nearly impossible to remain afraid for long. Only those seeing in the plane of energy could see that the dragon was, in fact, actively soothing the crowd, a gentle manipulation that whispered to them of trust and second chances.

Words were exchanged, speeches made, and then the cloth was dropped to reveal the new bas-relief that had been carved and ornamented with gold. For an instant, the crowd and the dragon shared a single emotion: hope.

Then, a black cloud descended on them all. Nidhogg’s aether was so overpowering it was visible to the mortal eye, and his rage rang in his voice as he cursed them all and attacked Vidofnir. Blood spattered, the shining new promise of peace already stained before they had taken the first steps. Despair and fear and anger tainted the air and the aether, dissipating only when the crowd at last broke up under the urging of the guards.

*

Alphinaud stood silent and still for a long while, leaning against the freezing stones without even noticing the cold for once. He had informed Krile and Y’Shtola that he had need of them, and had given them the means to contact Nightbird - who, he hoped, would bring her friends into the meeting as well. The very notion of what the songstress had done still made him feel a little ill, and yet – Pale was right. If it meant saving Estinien’s life - his soul - he too would not have hesitated.

But now that he had seen the transformation with his own eyes, his own senses, now that he could no longer entertain wishful fantasies that the situation was less dire than Berylla and Nightbird and Pale all had told him… He had bitten his nails on his right hand down to the quick already, and was starting on his left index finger now - the thumbnail being already gone.

Berylla walked past him, and he shook himself, and followed her to the airship landing. He had asked her for some of her time, to speak to her. His need for that had not changed. He glanced around, and saw Pale approaching Krile across the icy stones of the plaza. He did not know the quiet man well, but he trusted Nightbird, and she trusted her friends. He would leave them to pursue their solution, and not interfere.

*

Krile looked up as the tall Elezen approached. Her head was yet aching, but she recalled Alphinaud describing such a man to her, and telling her that he might speak to her. So she did not move away, and instead merely watched him with polite caution.

“You must be Krile. My name is Sn- ah. That is, my name is Pale. I was hoping we might have a word?”

“Seeing as Alphinaud specifically asked me to speak with you, yes,” she smiled up at him. “He mentioned that you are most interested in Nidhogg, and given the way he danced around the matter, I must assume that there is something you wish to ask me involving aetherology in some manner.”

Before Pale could reply, another voice spoke. “He was horribly embarrassed. I am quite surprised he was coherent.”

He turned to see Y’Shtola. She stepped closer to Krile, and raked her gaze up and down his tall lean frame. “Ah. Good to see you again, in a manner of speaking.” Her silver eyes stared at him with disconcerting directness.

Krile gave a small laugh. “It is always quite entertaining to see Alphinaud in a state of embarrassment. But amusing as it is, that is not the subject of which we are speaking.” She tilted her head, and gestured to Pale. “Please, ask your question. I cannot promise an answer, of course, but I will do my best.”

“It’s in reference to creating an aether link such that one could transfer energy to the person they are linked with.” He paused, hesitating a moment. “And if such a link could be formed, how to forge it in a short amount of time.”

Both women regarded him steadily for a long moment. Krile spoke first. “Creating an aether link can be very simple, depending on the purpose of that link. May I assume that by “transfer energy” you do not mean merely healing a comrade in the heat of battle?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” She tapped her lips for a moment. “Then the strongest sort of aether link would be the best choice. Such links usually take a week or more to form...except…” She glanced up at him, her brows drawing together. “Any aether link formed during an intensely emotional interaction is naturally stronger.” She waited, and Pale nodded.

“If you know of aether sex,” Y’Shtola said, “do you also know the risks?” Her voice was oddly brittle. “And why are you speaking to us on this matter, if you have this information?”

Pale sighed. “I am aware of the method, but not the risks. I was honestly hoping you might also have another suggestion. I… can’t say it’s my first choice.”

“Just what do you plan to do with this rapidly forged aether link?” Krile asked.

“I’m sure you’re aware of Estinien Wyrmblood’s current predicament.” The two nodded, and he continued. “Well, it turns out I also share a link to the dragon… more tenuous, but substantial enough to track him. With that link, my companions and I hoped to find a way to bolster the Azure Dragoon in an effort to free him from Nidhogg’s grasp.”

“One might ask how you came to be linked to a great wyrm,” Y’Shtola said with a raised eyebrow, “but that is beside the point...a tenuous link is not going to be of much help. Any energy you could send along it would merely strengthen the dragon.”

Pale nodded. “That is something we were concerned about. As it turns out one of my companions has a much stronger link to Estinien though - an aether bond. And to answer your question… apparently I was… am the second Azure Dragoon, though I do not remember.”

Y’Shtola closed her eyes for an instant. “Your lack of memory,” she sighed, “is like to be laid at my door. I will only express my regret, for now, that I caused so much damage. Further discussion on that matter will have to wait.” She opened her eyes again. “As for this aether bond…” Her lips twisted. “I am familiar with them. Even an incomplete bond can be...quite potent. Such a connection is more than strong enough to transfer quite a lot of energy.” She frowned. “You must understand the additional risks, however. An aether bond does not forgive mistakes. There is a very real chance that you, or your comrade, or both of you, may find yourselves unable to _stop_ transferring energy.”

“Put more simply,” Krile said, “You are talking about feeding your own aether into the Azure Dragoon, based on a slim hope that it will strengthen his aether. And you are willing to risk aether drain to do so.” Her eyes were sympathetic as she gazed up at Pale. “I will not advise you against any such notion. I merely wish to emphasize just what is at stake.”

“Is there a way to guard against aether drain? I truly do not think there is another way. At least none that we have come up with.”

Krile shook her head. “The only thing that I know of would be a third person...and I am not certain as to the efficacy of an aether link split three ways.” Her cheeks turned a very delicate pink for a moment. “Most of my own research focused on two-person links…”

Y’Shtola sighed. “And my own experience is limited as well. Theories indicate that such links are possible.”

Krile made a small noise, and set her hand to her head. “If we are to continue this discussion,” she said, “I fear it will have to be after I have dealt with this headache. At the least, I must get out of the sun.”

Pale gave the two a wan smile. “I don’t think further discussion is necessary. It seems I have my answer, and from your reactions, I’m going to assume there is no other method of forming a strong link so quickly.”

Y’Shtola shook her head, her silver eyes sad. “Would that there were. Slower methods are much gentler on all parties involved.”

“I see. Well, thank you again for your counsel.” He bowed to the two Scions and walked away.

*

Nightbird sat in her room, at the table, a cup of tea growing cold at her elbow. She held her head in her hands, fighting a silent battle with herself.

She had made love with Pale, once before, and it had ruined so much that she held dear. No matter how dire the need, how could she truly go through with this? She had hated even having to suggest it, knowing how unhappy it would make Felina. She almost wished she could contact Marius. Enduring his no doubt scathing lecture on her aether bond might even be worth having his help on this matter. But as was so often the case, he was nowhere to be found. She was left to deal with all of this on her own.

Alphinaud's words to her on the airship echoed in her mind and stung her heart. Was she truly weighing Estinien’s life against friendships she had only just begun to rebuild? He would not want her to sacrifice others to save him. He would not want her to harm herself to save him, either. He had already begged her to kill him once. The memory still hurt, like a deep stab wound, scarred on the inside as well as the outside. But to simply let him die...the very thought made every part of her want to scream. The Tower had claimed her first beloved. She would not - _could not_ \- allow Nidhogg to take Estinien. She was deeply afraid she might not survive the grief. Not twice.

She had tried walking the city, to distract herself, let her mind rest from worry and impossible ethical questions. But after a mere hour in the Crozier she had returned to the manor - almost running back. She had felt the city’s tension before, its rage, its confusion...but now...

They put on a proud front, the lot of them - even the folk of the Brume were likely disguising their feelings in bravado and shouting. Everyone seemed angry, everyone spoke as if they were glad to meet the Dravanians in battle, everyone boasted to each other of how many dragons they might kill on the day that Nidhogg came.

No one doubted that he was coming. His words at the peace conference had spread throughout the city like a virulent poison, and though gossip exaggerated many other parts of his appearance - his promise was never misquoted.

Every Ishgardian heart quailed at that promise. Behind their shouts, behind closed doors, behind their eyes, Ishgard _cowered_.

She felt herself on the edge of tears once again, shuddering with too many emotions to name. For the first time in many, many months she summoned up the memory of E-Sumi-Yan and the things he had taught her. She had cursed Y’Shtola for dragging her to Gridania back then. Now, she blessed the woman for interfering.

That day in the Toll, fleeing from the inn, she had been stinging from grief, still healing from her ordeal, and wrecked by losing her only friends. She had thought to run away, to take herself to the ramshackle little cabin by the lake, and then...

She had been in a dangerous place mentally. She knew all too well the harm she might have done to herself, had Y’Shtola not intercepted her before she could get on her chocobo. She did not wish to destroy herself now; she was far too afraid for Estinien to waste time on such thoughts. But the gentle lessons, the meditations the Padjal had taught her in those dark hours, were still of use.

Slowly, she forced her body to obey her mind, calmed her mind through the calming of her body, letting the meditation draw out her fear, purge her of spiraling worry. The calm would not last, but it was enough to grant her some few hours of respite. As panic receded, exhaustion flowed in, and she lay her arms on the table, and then rested her head on her arms.

Felina would return soon. Pale would, as well, and share with them what he may have learned. And then… She drifted into sleep.

*

There was a knock on the door, and Nightbird started awake. She rubbed at her cheek as she got up and crossed the room. She opened the door to see Pale, his hand raised as if to knock a second time. Behind him stood Felina, looking tense and drawn.

“Come in.” Nightbird closed the door after them, and quietly locked it. Not that she expected anyone to come knocking, but it made her feel better - more private. She noticed, absently, the time on the clock – well after supper.

She gestured to the table. “Shall we sit?”

Pale nodded, and the two of them took a seat at the small table. Once Nightbird was seated, he looked between the Miqote women. “I met with Krile and Y’Shtola yesterday after the conference. Using an aether link to send energy to Estinien is indeed feasible, so there is hope yet this plan may work.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “However, the… method of establishing a strong enough link in the time we have left… They could offer no other suggestions.”

Though she tried to hide it, Felina flinched. “That’s what I thought.” She pushed her chair back. “And no offense, but if that was the conclusion, I’m not sure why you brought me along.” She stood and turned, but Pale caught her arm before she could go further.

“Wait. There is another option, though it is not without its own drawbacks, but I would have you hear it.” Felina blinked and slowly sat back down. “As far as anyone knows, it has never been attempted, but it may be possible to forge an… additional link.” He looked into her eyes as understanding dawned upon her.

She shook her head, looking between Pale and Nightbird. “A- another link would just weaken the connection. You can’t risk that.” She turned to the smaller woman. “Nightbird, I said we’d get Estinien back. I promised, so whatever you need to do…”

Nightbird looked conflicted. No part of her wanted to leave any error when it came to saving Estinien, but the look in her friends’ eyes gave her pause. She reached out to her friend, palms turned upward. “Let us at least hear him out.”

Pale nodded to her - an expression of thanks before he turned his attention back to Felina. He took her hand gently in his own. “Felina, I need to know. Before all this. Before I lost my memory. Did you and I… love each other?”

Her eyes widened and a small noise escaped her throat before she could manage to stop it. “I- N-no, it wasn’t like that between us.”

He leaned closer. “But you love Nightbird, do you not? I’ve heard you say it when you thought I couldn’t hear.”

“Yes, but as a friend.”

He squeezed her hand. “And we were friends before.” His voice lowered. “We’re friends now too… right?”

Her mouth went dry. “Yes.”

“And what we had… what we have is strictly platonic?”

Felina looked away. “...Yes.”

Pale blinked a few times, swallowing visibly. “It’s still love.”

Felina drew in a quick breath as if she’d been pricked. “Pale…” She started to speak, but seemed to stall, shaking her head.

“The strongest aetheric bonds are forged through deep emotional connections. That’s what I was told. I can’t remember my friendship with Nightbird… but you’ve been with me for all this time. We’ve laughed together and cried. You’ve been there for me when I thought my world was ending.” His voice wavered. “And through it all, you’ve stood by my side. You can’t tell me we don’t have _something_ , even if that something is just friendship.”

Pale glanced from Nightbird and back to Felina. “You love us both, as we both love you. Don’t you agree?” He cast an imploring look back at the dark Miqote, and she nodded her agreement. “We need you, Felina. We might hold the link to Estinien, but you hold the link between us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A most heartfelt thanks to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for working so hard with me on this innovative solution to Estinien's predicament!


	24. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the best way to hold on is to let go.

When Lord Edmont had insisted on moving Nightbird to this new suite, she had objected only mildly - partly due to being very distracted. Only when she was fully moved in, did she realize just how luxurious the new quarters really were. Not only a sitting room, and its own attached bathing chamber with a sizable tub; there was also a very large bed.

The thing was of an ancient style - surrounded on all sides by a step, because the bed itself was too tall to get into without stepping up - with curtains that could be pulled all round - and it was big enough to let four people sleep in it. Four robust, tall Elezen men. Her first night in that bed, she had felt like a little girl, almost swallowed up in the huge expanse and the enormous down-filled comforter.

There was more than enough room for a pair of Miqo’te women and one tall Elezen man.

Nightbird had taken care to let Pale and Felina get onto the bed first, and make themselves a little more comfortable. She went round the room, snuffing the candles that were still lit, save for the pair that rested in sconces beside the bed. The dimming light seemed to take a little of the edge off Felina’s nerves, at least if the slow relaxing of her tail was any indication. Nightbird shed her clothes, save for her chemise, and then paced over to the edge of the bed.

Felina reclined against the numerous pillows. She had stripped down to her bra and pantalettes before Pale, divested of his own shirt, had grabbed her, pulling her against him and pressing a passionate kiss to her lips. It had been so, so long since she’d kissed him, much less been so exposed in his presence. Her stomach filled with butterflies. She pulled away and followed him to bed. She tried to relax but between the long time that had passed since she’d been with Pale and the addition of her oldest friend, she found it increasingly difficult. The dimmer lights did help somewhat, but they cast shadows that slid across their bodies in frustratingly enticing ways.

Pale maneuvered her into the middle of the bed, his fingers trailing across her belly making goose-flesh raise on her arms as the mattress sunk on her other side. Nightbird crawled toward them, making her heart rate nearly double.

Nightbird put one arm around Felina’s shoulders, snuggling gently. “We will move slowly,” she soothed. “No need to rush, no need to worry.” She shifted herself until she had Felina partly leaning against her, and ran her fingers through her friend’s blond locks. She did nothing more than that however, and Felina was soon distracted by Pale.

He ran his hands over her skin, his palms warm and callused, his touch slow and confident. He had thought about touching Felina quite a lot, and now he followed those unspoken desires, exploring her with his fingertips. He searched out her scars and traced the curve of her ribs; he caressed the softness of her belly and then palmed her breasts, gently. As he did, he watched her face.

Behind her, Nightbird whispered. “If you need us to stop, simply tell us, love. Trust us now as you have trusted us in battle. We have you, we are here for you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Felina’s breath came quicker as Pale explored her body. She leaned back against her friend, accepting her soothing support. “I trust you. If I’m safe with anyone, it’s you two.” The warmth of Pale’s hands radiated through the silk of her bra. He squeezed, and she let out a small moan that made her blush with self consciousness. His thumb swiped across the smooth material, and she soon forgot her slight embarrassment as a thrill shot through her, and her nipple hardened in reaction.

Nightbird’s fingers dragged down from Felina’s hair and then settled on the clasps of the bra, loosening them. As the silk went lax, Pale drew it away from her skin and tossed it to one side. Giving Felina one small, questioning glance, he leaned in and set his mouth over the same nipple he had caressed. Felina shut her eyes for a moment, the sensation almost too intense.

She felt Nightbird’s hands smoothing across her shoulders, thumbs rubbing lightly. Then a flower-soft cheek was pressing against her own, as Nightbird cuddled into her, murmuring softly. “Isn’t it good, love? Do you want him to continue?”

“ Yes.” Felina whispered on a hot breath. She closed her eyes and groaned as he gently sucked at her breast. “Please… don’t stop.” He smiled against her and changed sides to lavish attention on her other breast.

Nightbird watched Pale as he moved, but more of her attention was beginning to turn to Felina. Her scent seemed to bloom for Nightbird, an intoxicating aroma, something that called to mind sun-warmed grass and the lazy feeling of a La Noscean summer. She turned her head to bury her nose in the blond hair, and nuzzled her friend’s soft neck. Delicately she licked at the pale skin, making Felina shiver.

Felina made a sound somewhat akin to a whine. Her body was heating, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself considering what was _already_ being done to her. Her hand slipped into Pale’s hair as he gently nibbled at her. His free hand left off to make its way down her body, stopping at the curve between her waist and hip, sliding slowly back and forth. He moaned against her, and she shuddered, appreciating the way his hand seemed to fit so perfectly there.

She gasped as her friend found the sensitive spot nestled along the base of her neck. “Nightbird…” The darker Miqo’te raised her head, finding crystal blue eyes turned to glass with desire. Felina leaned forward ever so slightly to close the distance between them, pressing warm soft lips to her friend’s own. So sweet. She tasted of the tea she loved and so often drank to soothe her nerves. Felina took some comfort in knowing she had not been the only one who was nervous about what might happen this evening.

Pale pulled back and watched as the women kissed. He might have been jealous if it hadn’t been so arousing. The trousers he wore were rapidly becoming too tight for comfort. He fumbled the buttons loose and rid himself of the tiresome things while the ladies were distracted. He realized he had no reason to worry over being missed as Felina eyed him even as she kissed the other. He smiled and crawled back to her, leaning down to place a series of kisses along her belly. He dipped his tongue lightly into her navel and felt her start, muffled by the mouth that pressed against her own. He laughed, his breath hot and then cooling against the wetness he’d left on her skin. There was a story here. Something he couldn’t quite remember, but he had every confidence it had been an exciting one. Tonight, though, he was ready to make his own.

He smoothed his hands across her thighs, down to her athletic calves, and back again. He placed a kiss against her knee and worked his way up, slowly as she squirmed beneath him. Reaching her apex, he let out a long hot breath, and watched her hips roll with need. He placed a pair of fingers against the fabric of her smalls and rubbed, noting the dampness already present there.

Nightbird let her tongue fence with Felina’s, feeling the fangs at the front of her mouth, but not really minding. After all, she had fangs of her own. She trailed one hand up Felina’s back and then cupped the back of the other woman’s head, enjoying the silky feel of her hair and the way her body angled to press a little closer. A sudden euphoria came over her, making her feel suddenly electrified. Some part of her wanted this, wanted the touch, the comfort, the pleasure, but most of all she wanted them - both of them, her friends, who had meant so much to her, and who she had missed so very much.

As she let herself admit that, her aether unfurled like wings, and spread out to cover both Felina and Pale, brushing against them, eliciting response, inviting.

Felina felt the aether wash over her, a soothing balm to her soul she had not known she needed - warm and comforting like the friendship they shared so long ago. There was no one else she wanted to embrace in that moment, except perhaps… She pulled away just enough to look down her body even as her hand came up to caress a dusky cheek. Pale had paused his exploration. He felt it too, and he stared up at the two women with a renewed wonder.

The aether he felt… he _knew_ it. Felina may have captured his heart, but this woman had been by his side just as long even if he couldn’t recall, he knew it - felt it in his bones. These women, both of them, were dear to him on a level he couldn’t rightly understand. As they stared back at him, he got the aching sense of coming home after a long journey. He crawled forward, threading his fingers into Nightbird’s hair, and pressing a kiss to her lips, lingering and tasting until finally having to come up for air. Then he turned and captured Felina’s mouth, a kiss just as hungry and sweet. These two were his home, he knew, and he ached to have them both.

Breathless they broke the kiss, the three of them pausing for a moment to lean their heads together. Pale and Felina both reached out with their aether, colliding with each other and Nightbird’s own aetheric body. They allowed her greater experience to guide them, reaching out with tendrils of aether, and weaving them together. Before long, Pale could feel the two women as their aether stirred within his own. Felina for her own part could hear their aether singing - melodies and harmonies combining to form a beautiful song.

Nightbird felt and saw their aether, a faint vision of colors overlaying the waking world; their disparate colors, like veils braided and twined together. It would not last. It was not meant to last. But was it yet enough…?

She stroked Pale’s hair, and shivered, feeling the echo of her touch through his aether. She tried to send a pulse of energy to him, but there was no effect - she might as well have been blowing against a stone wall and expecting it to topple. Not enough, not yet… She flexed her aether, winding “herself” deeper into the other two. She focused on it so much that she barely noticed them moving just a bit away, becoming more and more involved with each other.

She could feel every kiss, every touch, from both of them, very faintly. She knew she had to be careful from this point - she mustn’t simply grab their aether and yank it where she willed.

Pale opened his eyes to find pools of sky blue staring back at him. Felina seemed to be entranced by something… listening. He pressed forward, wondering if he could possibly get close enough to hear it too. He took her head in his hands and kissed her again, this time lying her back against the pillows once more. It was there, on the periphery of his senses, almost a hum, but her mouth, needy and delicious demanded his attention. No matter, he would hear her sing by night’s end.

He pressed his mouth to her neck, kissing and nipping his way from there down her body. He stopped briefly at her breasts to suck a rosy peak, finding a hint of sensation there. Certainly not as strongly as she felt it, but it was clear her pleasure would echo through their bonds. He glanced over at Nightbird, who brought a hand up to the same breast. Pleasuring them both, even if more faintly for the other… his cock twitched at the thought, and he continued his journey lower.

Felina listened to her aether sing along the others’ bodies even as Pale curled his fingers into the top of her pantalettes, tugging them down and tossing them away. He bowed, between her legs, kissing the soft flesh of her inner thighs. His fingers made their way between her legs to caress her mound, and she heard him sigh.

“ Like velvet.” He said, almost reverently.

She couldn’t help but give a small laugh. “You said that before too.”

He smiled up at her. “Did I?” She nodded. “Well, let’s see what else I can remember.” He spread her open with those same fingers and dipped his head, running his tongue slowly through her wet cleft.

A moan escaped her at the sudden burst of sensation. Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she heard Nightbird echo her own moan, but the pleasure between her thighs demanded more of her attention. She gasped again as his tongue flicked over her sensitive bud, and she curled her fingers into silky white strands. How long had it been since he touched her like this? A year? Longer? She held remarkably still as he pleasured her, concentrating on every soft stroke, every near graze of her aching clit. His unhurried pace made her sigh with appreciation even as her body strove for release. It was still as good as she remembered, and she stroked her fingers through his hair in gentle encouragement while her tail languidly curled and uncurled beside her.

Pale hummed with pleasure as her fingers made small circles on his scalp. He’d found it hard to slow down once he placed his tongue against her. The sensation reverberating through their shared connection sent thrills straight to his groin, the likes of which he’d never felt. He forced himself to calm, as much as one could calm given the situation, and take his time. Her taste was wondrously sweet, and her soft moans, music to his ears. He felt like he could stay between her thighs forever, in one manner or another. But even while the feel of his tongue on her echoed back to him, he yet wished to sink himself inside her and feel her arched against him.

Nightbird let her hands wander over her own body for a moment, fingers tracing the path of the sensations she was receiving from the other two, and remembering all the ways that Estinien had touched her, tongued her, cherished her. A desperate ache nestled in her heart, and she tried once more to feed energy into Pale, but still their aether was not sufficiently intertwined… She made a small noise of frustration. She recalled how she had seized Estinien’s aether, and how he had responded - the blue fire that had coursed across his skin, and then hers. Could she awaken that fire in Pale? Perhaps that might be the key.

Pale was vaguely aware of the other woman crawling up beside him. He felt a warm hand on his skin, stroking down his spine to settle in the middle of his back. He felt fingers of aether close around his spine and for a moment the world went incandescent as every nerve in his body awakened. He drew in a sharp gasp as flames of raven black licked at his skin and spread across Felina’s body, chasing their way up and around Nightbird’s form as well. Pale struggled for breath as sensation threatened to overwhelm him. Instinctively he drew back on the flames, gathering them once more within his body and wrestling back control of his senses.

He panted for a moment and shook his head as if to clear it. “That wasn’t very nice.” He almost laughed as his gaze cut over to the Miqo’te at his side.

Nightbird’s fangs showed as she grinned, a nervous laugh rattling out of her. “Do it again.” Her amber eyes gleamed. “I think...we need it.”

His breaths became ragged. “I don’t know if I can. That was… intense.” A sense of  _ deja vu _ came over him as Felina slowly sat forward.

She cupped her hands around his face. “You can handle intense. I know you can.”

He nodded. “Okay…” He closed his eyes, taking a long deep breath in before unfurling the ebon flames to curl around the three of them. His nerves flared to life once more, neither pleasure nor pain, but with an intensity of feeling he couldn’t describe. Felina held him as the sensations coursed through his body, leaning her forehead against his own as Nightbird grasped his shoulders.

Nightbird lightly rubbed circles across Pale’s shoulders and half closed her eyes. The black flames held no pain or heat for her, nor for Felina. They connected with something deep within his soul, the same thing that had granted him his connection to Nidhogg. Her own bond with Estinien resonated with that connection, and like iron to a magnet, they drew together with such swiftness that her breath caught. For an instant she worried that she had gone too far - but then a voice whispered among the three of them - not on the air, but within their minds.

_Wouldst draw upon my strength? To what end dost thou strive?_ The voice hissed, and as Pale understood that the piece of dragon’s soul that resided in him was awake and speaking, so too did Nightbird and Felina realize it. The coiling aether that was part of Pale and yet eerily self-aware slithered across them all, as if it were searching their bodies for answers.

Nightbird could not articulate in words what she did then. It felt as if she were pouring her aether out around her, and yet also pulling that draconic presence in. Baring her heart and soul, showing the ways in which Estinien had marked her forever, the thing she had done - grievous and desperate and wrong as it was. Her love for him. Her fear for him.

Felina felt the dragon as much as she could hear it. Its song was like pounding drums and ancient as time. The presence weaved its way from Nightbird to her as if waiting on her own answer. Estinien was one of their own. Certainly even a dragon could understand the wish to bring their comrades home. He was important to her dearest friend, so he was important to her.

The dragon seemed to accept her feelings, coming at last to the man whose soul entwined with its own. For a moment Pale felt the slide of scales against his skin and fiery hot breath against his face. He already knew the answers the other two had given and could think of little more to add. What do we strive for? For comrades, yes, and for love, of course. But also for those unremembered. For family and memory, both precious and ephemeral.

The dragon soul rumbled.  _ That which is most precious is worth the striving. Very well. I grant thee this measure of my power _ . Then, in a whisper only Pale heard, it said,  _ And that which thou claimest shall be also mine _ .

The flames surrounding them did not die away, but they lowered, so that they seemed like a second skin over each of their bodies. And suddenly Felina could feel Pale’s shoulders under Nightbird’s fingers. Pale could sense how aroused Felina was, beyond the signals of body language.

Nightbird moaned softly, overcome by the lust of her friends. This was the state they had needed, but she had not realized it would feel so very  _ good _ .

She skimmed her hands down Pale’s back, and then crawled over limbs until she was stretched beside Felina, on her side, one hand caressing the blond Miqo’te’s belly. Her eyes were mostly closed as she pressed slow kisses against Felina’s upper arm and her shoulder, and down across her breast.

Pale leaned down and pressed another kiss to Felina’s mouth, the feel of Nightbird’s hands and mouth on her body made him shiver. Though he had been aroused before, now his body ached with the desire running through him from the two women. He pulled back to watch for a moment as the dark Miqo’te smoothed her hands and lips across Felina’s fair skin. He drank in the sight of them and the sounds of their soft moans of mutual pleasure.

Felina opened her eyes to stare up at him, her gaze liquid and wanting. “Pale… please...”

How could he possibly resist the sound of his name on her lips. He lowered himself to one side and slid his hand down her body to dip into the wetness between her legs. She had been so wet from his previous ministrations, and she let out a shuddering moan as he sunk his fingers into her core. He nearly cried out himself from the shared sensations, instead burying his face against her neck, placing hot kisses along its length.

He worked his fingers in and out of her, occasionally circling her clit with his thumb. Each time he swiped across the sensitive nub, the two women cried out in sweet unison as he bit his own lip from pleasure. Felina’s hips moved in time with his hands, and she whimpered as he increased the pace. He could feel her climax approaching and wondered briefly if she would carry Nightbird and he along in its wake. He crooked his fingers, reaching for that sensitive spot inside her sex, and she groaned. Even Nightbird cried out, grinding her mound against Felina’s thigh, adding to the building sensation.

He stroked firmly, pressing that deep secret spot and he felt her come undone beneath his hand. She arched and cried out as her orgasm washed over the three of them. Pale nearly drew blood biting his lip in an effort to contain his own climax.

Nightbird did not entirely recall moving, but she found herself cradling Felina to her, her body between her friend’s back and the piled pillows. Velvety smooth skin rubbed against her breasts, her nipples, but far more pleasure seemed to come from the sensations echoing across the link, as Nightbird kneaded and caressed Felina’s breasts. Nestled behind the blond Miqote as she was, it was simple for Pale to kiss her, then Felina again, drifting between them almost as if they were two blossoms on the same branch, two fruits on the same vine.

Pale heard as much as felt Nightbird’s thought and could not help but laugh a little. For if these two beautiful women were fruits, then they were ripe for him to pluck them.

He bent his head once more to kiss his way down Felina’s belly. A thread of memory tickled in the back of his mind and he cupped Felina’s bottom in both his hands, kneading the soft flesh for a moment, then curling his arms around to grasp and spread her thighs wide. He lowered his mouth to her sex and tasted of her once more. But this time, he swiftly moved from mere tasting to plundering her, sliding his tongue inside of her. He shuddered even as he reveled in the way she reacted.

Nightbird huffed a breath and moaned in unison with Felina. Memory tangled with reality for an instant, a dark night, the echoes of a nightmare fading under Pale’s touch, his tongue, his tenderness. How she had needed him that night. How grateful she had been for him.

Felina was on the edge of orgasm when Pale stopped, and pressed a warm kiss to her belly. Before she could protest, he was moving up and positioning himself, his manhood dragging along her thigh. When his tip rested against her warm, wet outer folds, all three of them dragged in a ragged breath.

“ Please…” In that moment, none of them could have said who spoke, or if they all did.

Pale pressed forward, and entered Felina. He moved slowly, and paused often. He panted and sweated, the effort of holding back every bit as strenuous as any combat. He felt how small, how incredibly tight she was, and more than that felt her body quaking with want and a certain thrill of fear. It was so very sweet. He wanted it to last forever.

Of course that was not to be, and somehow despite his glacial pace it seemed too soon when he had hilted completely inside of her. She gasped beneath him, Nightbird’s breathing just as ragged. Felina’s hands roved over his torso, stroking as she cajoled him with her hips for more. Nightbird’s hands continued to massage and caress Felina’s body. The sensations flooded through all three bodies, aether twining tighter, their hearts whispering to each other.

_ Slowly _ , Pale told himself, but withdrawing from Felina was almost like torture, and he could only make himself go half way before he sank back inside of her, groaning. Felina’s hands were caressing his back, Nightbird’s hands were in his hair, both of them were kissing his shoulders, his neck. He quivered like a plucked string, and held on to his control by the thinnest thread.

With his third stroke, Felina began to come, gasping. With his fourth, Nightbird let out a little mewl of lust and quaked against Felina. The dark Miqo’te’s fingers tightened in his hair, and her fangs pricked his lip as she kissed him. He lost track of reality then, his thrusts no longer measured, no longer slow, pressing deeper, harder, seeking glory - and then finding it.

All three of them tensed, though only Pale cried out, as he began to come. The shared pleasure soared through them, carried them to heights that seemed to touch the very stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for letting me drag her OCs into all this!  
> And if you are interested in the various and wild misadventures of Felina and Pale (and a younger Nightbird!) please check out her work!


	25. Find My Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams, miracles, and prayers

Estinien dreamed.

He did not question how he could dream if he was not able to sleep. Everything was a nightmare to him, now, every thought refreshing the endless torture. Nidhogg did not even have to expend effort on the dragoon's suffering: Estinien punished himself, dwelling on the things he had said and done that awful day. The way she had wept, the scent of blood, the way his teeth had marked her flesh. He had never wanted to hurt her.

There was no redemption possible. It did not _matter_ that he had not been in control of his body, it was yet _his body_ that had done these things, and the knowledge of it stained his soul as indelibly as Nidhogg's blood had stained his armor.

He barely noted the passing of time, and only observed the events at Falcon's Nest with the dull aching stare of a dog kicked too hard, too often.

His “self” in this hellish place within the wyrm's form was wasting away, he could see it if he cared to look: ribs protruding, wrist and ankle bones in sharp relief, eyes sunken. He clung to awareness, to life, too stubborn to let his soul shatter and be consumed by the beast.

That stubborn resolve to see the wyrm dead before he relinquished his own life was the only thing keeping him here. But once his oaths were fulfilled, once his hunt was at long last over...he wanted nothing more, now, than surcease.

Frequently he wondered if perhaps he had died, in truth, and this was merely some horrible afterlife, the hell that some folk believed existed: eternal punishment for a life of sin. He had no doubt he was a sinner, but he had never much agreed with such notions. Not when men like Charibert were richly rewarded, well protected, and yet committed acts so vile he could not even put words to them. Hell was as much of a fantasy as heaven.

But this – this horrid half-existence – was far, far too real, too visceral, to be mere fantasy.

His mind fled from ceaseless suffering and dove into true imaginings, and so – he dreamed.

*

The sun sparkled off the water and limned the white stones of the strange floating ruins with little streaks of gold. Bushes and trees grew all around, lush and untamed beyond the low fence – lush and lovely and filled with flowers, inside of it. He stood on a stone path, looking out at the lake, leaning his shoulder on the gate-post.

He knew this place – the general region at least. La Noscea, somewhere around Bronze Lake; he had leaped among those ruins once or twice, a long time ago.

“Enjoying the view, my dragoon?”

He turned and smiled. This was a dream, and so Nightbird's face was lovely and smiling and calm – not marked with tears and blood as it had been when last he saw her. There was no pain for him here.

She was wearing a pale dress, something fluttering and light and comfortable looking. As she held her hand out to him, the breeze flattened the cloth against her in a way that accentuated the gentle, growing curve of her belly. The sight made him tremble for an instant, but then she spoke, distracting him.

“Come inside, it's time to eat.”

He blinked and then noticed the house behind her – a modest place by Ishgardian standards, but it somehow looked...right. He did not question it, did not ask himself why it felt so familiar, with its dark gray stones and its pale wooden siding and its slate tiled roof. He took Nightbird's hand and tangled her fingers in his own, and followed her.

They passed into the house, and he took off his boots, noting the forge-fire neatly banked for night. In that strange fashion that dreams had of imparting information, he _knew_ that the forge was his own, that this entire house had been built with himself and Nightbird in mind, by people who loved them both very much. He knew the house held a small space for Nightbird's work, and somehow knew that both of them split their time between Ishgard and this place, and knew also that they did not often entertain friends here...that this house was a sanctuary of sorts for the two of them.

She led him into a room with a pair of sofas and several comfortable chairs, all of them upholstered in dark blue, and he knew then that this place was at least in part Aymeric's doing, and somehow it did not raise in him the pain and regret and grief that thinking of his beloved friend did at all other times.

A table was laid ready, set for two, and he found himself holding the chair out for Nightbird, collecting a kiss from her, and sitting down, just as if he had always lived such a calm and domestic life. In that ineffable way of dreams, the act of eating was more implied than experienced, and most of Estinien's attention rested on the woman across from him.

His lover. His beloved. His mate.

Those calm and domestic feelings continued, as they cleared the table, washed dishes, and took care of other such tasks. Not always together, but always he could hear her, humming softly to herself.

Then, with that easy shift that all dreams seemed to share, the two of them were lying in a bed together, still clothed, and she was snuggling into him. He held her, stroked her hair, and found his hand drifting to her belly. Her delicate hand laid over his, and she kissed his cheek.

“It is a little soon to expect to feel anything from them, love.” Her words shivered with laughter.

Estinien's eyes stung.

To dream of a quiet life did not surprise him. But to dream that Nightbird would bear his children?

He pressed his lips to her forehead and told himself that this was a cruel, cruel dream. How _could_ he wish for such a thing? After what he had done to her...the pain Nidhogg had used his body to inflict on her...he could never forgive himself for that, would never ask that Nightbird forgive him. Dream or not... No, that was asking far too much of her.

“Don't.”

He leaned back, and Nightbird looked up at him. Her hands slipped up to cradle his face.

“Forgiveness is mine to give or not, Estinien,” she murmured, and something about her voice had changed. Less dream-like, more immediate – as if she lay beside him in truth, and whispered to him in his dark prison. “You never needed to ask me for it. I forgave you long ago. Please...don't punish yourself this way.”

“I brought you pain,” he choked. He sounded angry, and his hands held her with more force than he wanted. He wished he could say more, but the words knotted in his throat, tangling around his tongue.

Nightbird shifted, and knelt, pushing him down onto his back, so that she could put her hands on either side of his head and stare down into his eyes, allowing him no escape from that amber gaze.

“Estinien.” Her voice seemed to echo slightly. “This is not just your dream, dragoon, it is mine as well. For I am with you, for always. I love you, with all that I am, for always.”

“How can you?” He was ashamed of the way he sobbed those words. “I am a monster! An abomination!”

“You are many things, but you are not a monster. You never will be. Not to me, Estinien.” Her lovely lips curved. “I am a most stubborn creature, you know. I made up my mind long ago that I would not give you up, or give up on you.”

“You are a fool,” he rasped.

“And you are not?” She tapped the end of his nose. “We cannot lie to each other, not at the moment. We are both fools, for we both love when we perhaps should not. We don't give up when perhaps we should. We see what we want and we strive for it. No?”

The world around the two of them was fraying, becoming foggy and indistinct. Estinien felt as if he could not breathe.

“...little bird...”

“I will _not_ let you go without a fight,” she told him, her tone fierce now. “I have loved before. I have lost before. I will not let it happen again, not while there is breath in my body, blood in my veins. I will not chain you, but _I will not let you go, damn it_.”

His breath caught in his chest. “Even if I am forever twisted into _his_ form? Even if I am driven mad, or permanently deformed, or – ”

“Sh, sh, sh.” She kissed him. “Yes. I will love you still, even if you are mad or misshapen or covered in scales. Be feeble, be ugly, be too scarred to touch – _it matters not_ , Estinien. I love you, so long as you live.” Her voice trembled. “So _live_ , my darling. Live for another hour. Another day. Spit in the face of the wyrm, _endure_ , fight with all you have – and know that I too will fight.”

She lay her cheek against his, a touch soft as snow falling. “You are not alone, my dragoon. Never alone, never abandoned. Bide just a little longer, for we are coming to help you.”

*

Estinien's voice cracked as he came back to himself. He screamed into the darkness, a cry of rage and longing. He struggled anew against the bonds that held him fast, and felt Nidhogg's will lash him, renewing the pain that had almost ebbed.

His despair had nearly numbed him to it all. Despite his resolve he had in fact nearly given up.

Everything hurt. The agony made tears stream from his eyes, and he cried out again, a ragged sob. But somehow, the suffering that ravaged him was yet muted, or perhaps only eclipsed by a burning pain in his soul that had not been there before. He focused on that searing heat, and imagined he could hear Nightbird singing to him, a song without words, a song of promise.

Never alone. Never abandoned. We are coming.

The dragoon wept, but no longer did he seek to dream.

*

In darkness, Nightbird's eyes opened. She was surrounded by warmth and limbs, the weight of sleep pressing comfortably on herself and her friends. A tear crept down her cheek, but a small, weary smile curved her mouth.

She had seen him, in her dream. How sad he was. How thin, worn down by the torment he was suffering. But she had spoken to him, kissed him, touched his spirit. She hoped she had rekindled his will to fight.

She thought about the dream a little, and nodded to herself. The house had resembled Alphinaud's sketches almost perfectly.

Memory welled up in her mind...a meeting with Alphinaud, in the library. He'd asked her to speak with him, hours before haring off into the Mists with Berylla and Aymeric.

*

Alphinaud presented the little folder with a small flourish and shy smile. Nightbird opened it to find a sheaf of sketches. Neat, and spare, and elegant – two different views of her little lake cabin as it was, and then...

“I spoke with Ser Aymeric, and he and I thought perhaps you would accept this as an additional offer for becoming the Songstress Laureate. These are not yet true plans, but I did my best.”

Alphinaud _had_ talked with her about that cabin, during their journey. He had drawn from her some of her modest hopes for what the place could have been, had she had more skill for the work needed. He had even asked permission to discuss the cabin with others. She had not really believed he would do so – when would he have the _time_ , after all? – but she had given her consent anyway. What harm did it do, let herself dream a little? To let Alphinaud's imagination play with the ideas she had so wistfully confided? None, surely.

She was astonished he had sketched her notions, even more astounded that he had talked to Aymeric about them. She stared at his drawings with wide eyes. Alphinaud's smile wavered as her silence stretched on a bit too long.

“If I have offended...”

She shook her head, and blinked quickly to clear her eyes. “No, no, you have not offended me at all. Quite the opposite.” She turned another page, and swallowed. “Is this not...a bit extravagant, for a mere singer? My needs are very modest...oh.” Her voice stopped. This time the tears would not stay away, and her hand shook as her fingers lightly touched the page before her.

The figures were little more than impressions, but it was clear who they were. Estinien – and herself – standing in front of the house, looking out at the lake. Her heart clenched.

“Ser Aymeric is of the opinion that you will find yourself playing host to friends,” Alphinaud's tone was hesitant. “He said to tell you that he hopes to provide comfort for yourself, and also for Estinien.”

She looked up at him, eyes swimming. “Ser Aymeric has quite a way of showing how much faith he has in me.”

“He places his faith in all of us,” Alphinaud answered, somberly. “I confess, I had my doubts about what you and your friends plan to do, but I can no longer object. Whatever it takes – we must _try_. I do not intend to willingly sacrifice Estinien.”

Nightbird set down the folder, and took the young scholar's hands in hers, squeezing tightly.

*

Nightbird blinked into the dark, and sighed softly. Her dream may have begun simply with her own fantasies of a quiet life, of Estinien by her side. But she had connected with him. That had not been some dream version of the dragoon, it had truly been him. The aether bond between them must have provided the initial contact – perhaps already strengthened by what she had done with Pale and Felina? There could be no other explanation for how her soul had reached out and touched Estinien's.

What few lingering misgivings she had over being offered an entire house as part of this astonishing offer to become Songstress of Ishgard evaporated. The dream was too sweet, her longing for what she had seen was too strong. Temptation did not _always_ have to be resisted.

She would accept the Lord Commander's offer. She would accept the position he proposed, though she would not tell him so until after this coming battle was over. She would do her damnedest not to fall short of the faith he had shown her.

So strange! Even just a year ago, she would never have guessed the turns her life would take. Two years ago she had believed her life was settled, that she would always have a partner in G'raha Tia. She had been so certain that the two of them would always be together, that they would always pursue knowledge, raise their children to value wisdom and learning, song and story.

The pain of losing him was not gone, but she had learned to live with it. She had done so much, repairing her mind, rebuilding her life... finding new purpose, new friends, to replace all that she had lost.

Beside her, Felina murmured in her sleep, and burrowed her head into Pale's neck. Pale's fingers tightened on Nightbird's, and she smiled once more.

She had regained her dearest friends. If _that_ was not a miracle, then there were none to be found on this star.

Rescuing Estinien seemed far more possible, right now, than ever it had.

Slowly, she let her eyes close once more, and began to pray.

_Blessed Twelve, let this work. Let us save him. Give me – give us all – a chance at such a future._


	26. Liminal Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nidhogg has come for vengeance at last.

The three of them woke just before dawn to the sound of every bell in Ishgard ringing.

There was no doubt as to the reason for the cacophony: every soul in the city had been waiting for this moment. The Dravanian Horde had been sighted.

Nidhogg had come for vengeance at last.

Bound as they were, there was no need to talk, and no need to hurry. They moved smoothly through all the necessary tasks of getting up, getting themselves ready. Not a motion was wasted.

Pale helped hold Felina’s hair out of the way as Nightbird laced the blond bard’s armor up in the back. Felina in turn brushed out his white hair and helped him restrain it in the manner he most often preferred. Nightbird braided Felina’s hair even as Pale plaited the dark Miqote’s black locks. And when Pale noticed the fine streaks of white that had not been there the day before, Felina was the one that turned and looked at Nightbird with concern.

Nightbird, for her own part, could only shrug. She didn’t know quite what was going on with her hair. Perhaps something to do with the sheer amount of aether she had been lately handling - or some other side effect of the link the three of them had built - or something unrelated to any of it. She smiled softly at her friends, and the first words of the morning slipped quietly from her lips.

“Don’t worry about it. We have bigger things to handle.”

They exited Nightbird’s room, and made for the main sitting room. Once there, they listened as Edmont and Artoirel laid out the way in which House Fortemps would be distributing its knights. As the uniformed men filed out, Nightbird approached the old lord.

“My Lord Uncle,” she bowed slightly to him, “I beg leave to take part in the defense of the Steps of Faith.” She met his eyes, looking up at him with calm confidence. Only Pale and Felina knew how frightened she was on the inside. “My comrades and I have developed a tactic which we believe may help turn the tide of battle when Nidhogg takes the field.”

“You plan to attack the wyrm directly?” Edmont’s eyebrows drew down, a deep scowl of concern.

“No, sir,” Pale answered. “It is an indirect method, but one that risks only ourselves.”

“And,” Nightbird added, “we can be available to supplement the strength of House Fortemps, until the wyrm appears.”

That seemed to decide the old Elezen. “Very well,” he nodded. “Place yourselves where you must, and stand ready to assist as you can. I am aware that you, Nightbird, have some healing magic, and that would be of the greatest help in the vanguard.” He tilted his head at Felina and Pale, and both of them gave a shallow bow.

“Felina is also a skilled healer, and an archer,” Nightbird said quietly, “and Pale is - let us say, an exceptionally talented dragoon in his own way.” She gave the Count a small smile. “Their stories are their own, and are best saved for another time, but please know that I trust them with my body and soul...and with Estinien’s soul as well.”

Edmont’s eyebrows shot up, but he hesitated only an instant before his hands closed over both of Nightbird’s. “Then go with my blessing, niece. Go, and come back _alive_ , do you hear me?”

“I will, Uncle.” She squeezed his hands, and when he let her go, she turned away and walked calmly out of the manor.

*

The Steps of Faith were teeming with activity, but like an ant nest that has been roused, that activity was anything but chaotic. Every House had sent every knight that could be spared - contingents inside the city were in place to guard roofs as best they could - most of them archers, who would be horribly exposed on the bridge. Every dragon-killer cannon had been pressed into service, including a handful that were so old no one was sure they could get more than one shot out of each of them. But every single shot would count. It _had_ to count.

The sun was just rising, cloaked in mist, casting strange shadows that writhed like illusory dragons across the towers of the city.

This attack was not going to end when they had killed enough dragons to make the others quail. Everyone knew it, and it haunted every face on the walls and on the bridge.

There would be no blunting of the assault, no quarter given, nor mercy to the innocent. Nidhogg’s rage was a sickness, a madness blazing in the heart of every one of his children, and they thirsted only for Ishgardian blood, Ishgardian suffering. The least and littlest would not be spared; no stone would remain standing atop another. They would scour the mountain clean of every speck of evidence that Ishgard had ever been, if the defenders did not stop them.

“Where is the Warrior of Light? Where is the Lord Commander?” someone was heard to ask, a fretful echo murmuring through the knights, and Lucia answered, her tone ringing clearly over the babble.

“The Lord Commander is on his way back to the city at this very moment,” she said, “with reinforcements. That’s all you need to know.” She made a cutting motion with both hands. “Keep your minds on the fight in front of you! We must hold back their advance as long as possible! Every Dravanian slain on the bridge is one less Dravanian to attack our city’s walls.”

A horn blew, and every head turned to the north and west. Murmurs rose from the assembled as the sun abruptly grew dim.

“There are so _many_ …”

Lucia scrambled up on top of a stack of large crates, placing herself above the crowd, dragging every eye to herself and away from the black cloud approaching the city.

“You are right,” she said. “There are many, many Dravanians. Far more of them than there are of us. And it has ever been so, has it not? Ishgardian hearts are made of sterner stuff than to quail at mere numbers! Every one of you has killed a dragon, or you would not be standing here now.” Her eyes scanned the crowd. “Many of us are likely to die this day. There is no point in lying to you about our odds, for they are not good. But I tell you this, here and now.” Her voice strengthened, ringing out louder than the horn had done. “For every Ishgardian life these beasts claim, you can and you _will_ make them pay ten-fold, twenty-fold! If they wish to try our strength, let us give them all we have, right in the teeth! Make of yourselves sacrifices to Halone, and surround the offering of your bodies and souls with the flesh of our enemies! _**FOR ISHGARD!!**_ ”

Twenty thousand men and women roared approval at her final words.

Nightbird looked at her friends. She could feel Felina’s fear, and Pale’s nervousness. She acknowledged her own fear and then shared with them a measure of calm, the same calm she had drawn upon in the past, born of meditation and her own, quiet faith.

Then, the three of them moved out, taking up positions near the front of the mass of knights.

*

The skies were dark with dragon wings - but only for a little while. Most of the smaller beasts preferred to get in close to the enemy. Within the first hour, the stones of the bridge were slick with the blood of dragon and Ishgardian alike. Nightbird and Felina healed those they could, but they held back, pacing themselves, husbanding their power. Pale kept himself nearby, defending the two women when he could and aiding anyone that came close enough. His armor was splattered liberally with blood, but so far none of it was his own.

The bulk of the Ishgardian forces were somewhat strung out along the bridge, clustering around the towers with their enormous dragon-slayer cannons. Along the walls, arrows sang out and felled dozens of small dragons with every volley. So far it was enough to keep most of them out of the city.

The foot soldiers were being slowly, steadily pushed back, however. The bigger dragons were wading in, now - some of them swooping down to pluck a knight bodily up into the air. Such victims were carried, screaming hysterically, and unceremoniously dropped into the chasm beyond the bridge. Other, slightly smaller dragons plucked up pieces of fallen masonry and carried them high into the air, only to drop them on the hapless men below.

A shout went up as one of the dragon-killers found its target and impaled a particularly large dragon right through the heart. The huge creature screamed in agony, and plummeted - into the very tower that had brought it down. The impact shook the entire bridge, and the top of the tower was obliterated, stones and knights and dragon-killer cannon and dragon and all swallowed by the clouds in an instant.

The fighting didn’t stop for a second, but Pale gestured to Felina and Nightbird. Through their link, his intent was clear. _Get to that tower! The dragons won’t bother with it now._

They gathered themselves, and scrambled across the bloody stones.

A wyvern’s screech rang out overhead as a gust of buffeting wind hit Felina’s back. She ducked and rolled as a razor sharp talon nicked the side of her ear. To her right, the whoosh of Nightbird’s dagger sliced through the air and buried itself with a meaty stab in the creature’s face. Its wing-beats stuttered for an instant as it reoriented itself, turning and flapping instead towards Nightbird with a rage filled shriek. It surged toward her, fangs bared for the kill when black fire struck it in the back, instantly followed by a lance point. Pale landed with a thud atop the beast, shoving the lance through its body, and rode the beast crashing to the ground at Nightbird’s feet. The wyvern shuddered, coughing splatters of blood across Nightbird’s boots, and died.

Felina kept moving, and Nightbird broke into a sprint as soon as the wyvern stopped moving, with Pale just behind her. They dashed into the cover of the broken stones around the base of the stricken tower. Nightbird scanned the skies and shuddered suddenly.

Pale shivered an instant later, and Felina felt it too, though somewhat faintly.

Nidhogg was here.

*

Nightbird and Pale placed themselves near the central pillar of the tower, just under the stairs that spiraled upward: the stoutest part of the structure now, and the safest place for what they had to do. They sank to the ground, facing each other somewhat, and Nightbird took Pale’s hands in her own. Felina moved into a position that let her stand guard over her friends. Her back was to them, and her eyes scanned the battle and the skies.

Pale was not unfamiliar with how aether felt - he knew how to use his own energy for combat, he had to know. But he had never _seen_ aether, had never even read about the stuff as far as he could remember, for his own needs and uses for that energy were practical, the processes quite simple and straightforward. When Nightbird took his hands, and concentrated, their shared bond responded by joining their senses - and he realized that Nightbird saw the world in a very different way.

He felt her reassuring smile. _Not all the time_ , her mind whispered. _Only when I cast my awareness outward this way_. But he was still amazed.

The battlefield was chaotic in the real world; in the realm of aether, it was easily twice as confusing. Without Nightbird’s confident presence, he might well have been overwhelmed by the sudden flood of images, colors, impressions. Both of them took a moment to orient themselves, as they seemed to stand on the broken wall of the tower above their own bodies.

Screeches still resounded, and if one squinted, one could still see the real world battle. But far more vivid were the splotches and swirls of color that bled together, clashed into each other, and threw off swirls and sprays. Everything seemed incredibly fluid - ink floating in oil.

The Bridge itself seemed almost a living thing, the most solid thing in this strange, flowing world. It did not shift, and ghosts of its original structure still loomed above them, as if the stones did not quite “know” they had been sundered and scattered. The whole thing was a deep, dark color - black with flashes of brilliant blue, like some fabulous beetle shell. Nightbird knew, without knowing quite _how_ she knew, that what they were seeing was a thousand years’ worth of memories, blood, and aether that had soaked into these stones. Every knight who had died here, every traveler who had crossed in times of peace or times of panic, trickles of experience and emotion layering one over the other - the dense, living history of Ishgard, locked inside granite and iron. That aether was not to be accessed by any mortal being: only a creature as ferociously aether-hungry as a primal might tap into those stones.

The sky, by contrast, was utter chaos: in the waking world the sky was dotted by dark gray clouds in streaks and smears, choked with dragon wings. Here, agitated whorls of dark purple aether shot to and fro, each Dravanian a clot of bruise-colored rage. The sky itself was streaked by blood red lightning, stark against the strange gray of the upper reaches.

Below the Bridge, the Abyss yawned, looking almost the same as it did in the physical realm - eerily billowing white fog, the aether there almost purely constructed of icy energies.

The gathered knights seemed like a single mass of color - a muddy sort of gray-brown, a color that Nightbird knew to be the natural hues of those untrained in magic and without the sort of particular powers she and other Warriors of Light possessed. Though each man fought on his own, they were united in purpose, and their cloudy aether reflected that, melding twenty thousand souls into a tide of power that covered the Bridge as a river in flood covers its banks.

The Dravanians - larger splotches of that same bruised hue as their sky-bound brethren - flung themselves against the swell and flow of the Ishgardians. Everywhere they clashed, more colors spewed forth - a spray of violent red, a streak of acidic green - or the sudden cold black of dissolution.

Nightbird tugged at Pale gently and guided him to focus their attention. They could see Felina, her aether scarlet and summertime and crackling with staunch determination. But they could also see, far above the Bridge, the looming presence of the one who had lately arrived.

 _ **Nidhogg**_.

Nightbird shuddered to see that roiling blackness - the rage and despair and thirst for vengeance. Those feelings were all that remained of the wyrm. His madness had outlived his body and destroyed most of his mind. She quaked to be in his presence once again.

Tears streamed down her cheeks where she knelt against the stones, terror clamping down on her, demanding that she flee from the being that had hurt her so very badly.

Pale’s hands clenched on hers, and his aether - blue-white, streaked with the palest hints of sunrise - wrapped around her own. Protective, and a promise: _You do not face him alone._

Nightbird drew one long, shivering breath. Then, she grasped Pale’s aether tightly, and bade him leap.

*

Felina felt it when her friends “left.” She heard Nightbird’s soul whimper - heard and felt how Pale bolstered her. Then she heard, clear as a trumpet call, Nightbird’s command to him. Their bodies were helpless, now: she glanced behind her and saw that they were both slumped over, shoulders and heads leaning against the stone pillar. She returned her attention to the battle around them, and readied herself. Just let them try to hurt the ones she loved.

Felina turned, watching the skies for threats and took a deep breath as she allowed her consciousness to expand outward through the physical and aetheric realms. She whispered, a ripple of divination forming cards of shining aether before her. The Hermit, Knight of Swords, Eight of Wands. The cards dissolved into her own aether, and she sucked in an alarmed breath as her hands flew to nock an arrow. She turned, chanting power along the arrow’s shaft as she drew.

High above a dragon met her gaze diving towards her, fast as lightning and just as deadly. She breathed a word - “gravity” - and the spell flared as her arrow blazed through the sky, striking the dragon’s breast and wrapping it in dark light and cracking levin. A sphere of force snared the beast slamming it to the stones with a rumble and a crack of bones. Mere yalms away, a final shivering cry pierced the air as the dragon sank fitfully into unconsciousness.

Felina huffed a breath as she took in the scene. She hoped it would be enough of a warning to keep any more would-be attackers at bay. Across the bridge a massive dragon approached, and goose-flesh rose on her arms. The sky’s strange light glinted on white feathers and scales. Hraesvelgr! On his back rode the Warrior of Light as two more dragons followed in their wake, bearing the Lord Commander and Alphinaud. As glad as she was to see them, the approach of another, darker presence dried her mouth and sent a sinking feeling through her being. Nidhogg had been here for some time, but now he showed himself.

*

Pale and Nightbird gazed around at the aetherial realm, their bodies forsaken but for the silver cords anchoring their souls to the physical world. Those frail shells slumped, as if deeply asleep, but Nightbird flexed her limbs and saw Pale doing the same. They looked just as they did in the waking world - though their bodies were monochromatic now, as if they had been painted in the colors of their own aether: she a deep royal purple, and Pale the blue-white purity of winter dawn.

Everything felt intense and immediate to her, as if a veil had been peeled away from her sight. She felt as if her strength were boundless. She wrapped her arms around Pale’s neck, even as he held her around her waist, and then he _leaped_.

They shot into the sky like a pair of fireworks.

Once they were in the air, high above the bridge, Nightbird found that she felt strangely weightless. She let go of Pale’s neck, though she caught hold of his hand rather than completely letting go, and discovered that she could, in a limited fashion, fly.

She glanced over at Pale, and saw on his face the same surge of wild, fierce joy that swelled in her heart. Fighting Nidhogg like _this_ \- surely they could succeed! Together they flew even higher, and dove straight into the heart of that roiling form looming over the battle, that shape made of sullen shadow and restless lightning.

Within that darkness, their movement became most like flying through a tempest. Wind buffeted them and lightning chased after them. They were swifter even than the lightning, and they arrowed straight for the beacon of Estinien’s soul, shining in the blackness, like a lonely, stubborn star.

Abruptly they were there. “There” being a relative term, of course - but it had the appearance of a kind of pocket within the dragon’s essence, a cavern hung with ropes - or vines of some horrid sort. Suspended among those hideous tendrils - “Estinien!”

Nightbird was at his side instantly.

The Azure Dragoon lifted his head, and stared at her blankly for a moment, eyes dull with pain, brow furrowed as if he could not fathom who she was.

“Estinien - oh my love - I am here, _we_ are here - ” Nightbird’s hands gripped his shoulders as she willed strength into him, healing him, her hands glowing silver.

“Little bird.” His voice was a mere croak. “Why - why are you - no, _how_ are you doing this? The wyrm is - “

We will not let you perish this way,” she told him fiercely.

“Nidhogg will kill you,” Estinien groaned.

“No,” Pale answered. A lance of pure white-blue aether formed in his hands. “We will defeat the beast.” Ebon flames burst from his skin, and Pale struck. His lance shattered one of the tendrils that looped around Estinien’s limbs. “Join us, Azure Dragoon!”

Nightbird’s power flowed over and through Estinien, and more of the tendrils sizzled and withered away, as she fed him the strength he needed to break free. His aether grew bright, steady, strong.

A single thick vine remained, wrapped tightly around Estinien’s legs, when the roar sounded. It echoed all around them in the liminal space defined now by their minds and not the dragon’s will alone.

“The wyrm comes!” Estinien’s voice crackled with determination. “He seeks to sink his teeth into us!”

Nightbird manifested a huge bow made out of her own, royal purple aether, and nocked a glowing scarlet arrow. “Then he’s biting off more than he can chew!”

Nightbird and Pale stood back to back with Estinien as he manifested his own lance, and in this realm Gae Bolg gleamed, darkest blue, flickering with silver. Blue fire licked along his body, seeming stronger now than in the physical world.

The cavern seemed to fall away - though the thick, ugly coil still bound Estinien to one spot - and Nidhogg appeared before them, his aetheric body smaller yet no less fearsome. Dark crimson energy roiled around and through him, and the air shivered with the power of an ancient dragon. The three of them glared out at the beast and braced for the battle to come. This was it. They _had_ to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for letting me drag her OCs into all this!  
> And if you are interested in the various and wild misadventures of Felina and Pale (and a younger Nightbird!) please check out her work!


	27. A Final Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, one must let go of everything to protect what matters most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features two characters that belong to the incomparable [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville)  
> Pale and Felina will guest star for a bit!

Felina knelt, arrow nocked and ready, but hoping not to draw attention to herself and her sleeping charges. The great dragons parlayed, their voices booming over the battle that still raged on the bridge. What was happening in the aetherial realm? She felt her friends as they flew through the air, the surge of power within them as their aether coalesced to stand against the wyrm. Her lips moved again, a ripple of power on her breath, and three cards appeared before her.

_Two of Cups, Eight of Swords, Seven of Wands_. “Take me there.”

The world around her dimmed, and she saw the scene as if in a dream. They’d freed Estinien and stood ready to fight. Nightbird’s bow was drawn in an elegant and deadly arc as the dragoons stood each at her side. Stretching her soul across the realms was risky, and her abilities were limited here, but she would do for them what she could. She sang and sent the cards out on a breath to each of them. The power sunk down into them, and their souls flared in response. It would have to be enough.

She stared out, looking onto two battlefields as the sky bloomed into chaos and her friends met Nidhogg’s gaze.

*

_Thou art fools! I am unstoppable! I will slay all that ye hold dear -_

“Oh, _shut the fuck up_.” Nightbird’s voice rang out, shocking the wyrm into momentary silence. “You had your chance to kill me. You shall _not_ be granted a second opportunity. Now it is _we_ who shall rend _your_ flesh.” Her arrow sang towards the dragon’s eye.

Nidhogg writhed away, only to instantly swerve again narrowly dodging the lance that sailed past. Below, the bound dragoon grinned, an expression the dragon did not miss, and the wyrm reversed course. Too late. Pale rammed down upon his skull like a thunderbolt. Blood red aether sprayed like a fountain, and the dragon screamed in outrage.

Nidhogg wheeled around them, and with Estinien yet pinned, Nightbird did not dare press her pursuit. But Pale harried the beast - slashing a wing, stabbing viciously at a limb - the intensity of his speed seeming to make him flicker in and out of existence as he dodged claws and great crushing jaws. Nightbird understood, with sudden clarity, that these forms of theirs had none of the physical limitations their true bodies did.

She could feel it through her link with Pale. They were burning through their own life force to perform these feats. She pressed her shoulder into Estinien’s, and focused her will and her aether. “Ignore the wyrm,and sunder your remaining bond - we haven’t much time!”

Estinien obeyed, slicing downward at the vine-like thing that held him. He hacked at it a second time, and Nidhogg’s head swung round towards the two of them. Black jaws gaped, and fire blossomed in the back of the dragon’s throat.

“Oh no you don’t!” Nightbird’s bow vanished, and she spread her arms wide. Silver-green light shimmered across her body and Estinien’s, and the flames passed over them, doing them no harm. She felt the drain on her aether, though, and as the dragon dived towards them, she focused, hands raised before her, palms facing out. There was no way to know if this would work - but she was going to try anyway.

Aether exploded outward from her palms, pure white Light, and slammed into the dragon’s face blinding him with its radiance and turning his flight aside, so that he whooshed past her and Estinien, shaking his head and roaring with frustration.

Behind her, Estinien continued to chop away at the tangling vine, cursing under his breath.

High above, Pale pursued the dragon with the single minded focus of a hunter for his prey, appearing just behind the wyrm to drive a vicious spear through the scale and muscle of its flank.

Nidhogg bellowed in fury - and then the world tilted crazily.

“He has taken flight!” Estinien’s cry carried over the dragon’s roars. “He battles his own brood brother - and he will kill Hraesvelgr if he must!”

Nightbird braced herself, grimly, and yelled back, “Then we must free you before that happens!” She felt the drain in her energies; there was no denying now that the harder they fought, the closer they came to depleting their own aether. They would soon be out of time. She called out to Pale. “Help us!”

*

Felina held her breath and silently prayed as the great dragons fought. She stood frozen and ready to fight, but no attackers appeared, wrapping her in an eerie, uneasy stillness. Her hands flew from her sides with a flourish as cards of aether spun wildly around her and her vision shimmered.

_The Tower, The Magician, Strength… Death._

Her vision cleared as Nidhogg ripped the tower across the bridge from its foundation, swinging it with the sort of might only an elder dragon could possibly possess. It fell, narrowly missing Lucia and Aymeric, and split the bridge with a quaking blast that sent her to her knees. She hid her face as stone shrapnel raked across her cheeks and pelted her body, leaving bruises and stinging cuts where it hit. Pale! Nightbird! She coughed the dust from her lungs as she crawled over to their unconscious bodies. Powdered brick and mortar settled like snow over her sleeping friends as she checked them over, channeling healing energy into their wounds.

By the time the clouds dissipated, the dragons were gone, having again taken to the sky. A roar followed by a mighty blast rocked the bridge from below as Felina struggled to stand. She scrambled up a small pile of rubble, straining to get a better view of the battlefield.

All around, fighters and Dravanians littered the bridge. Some fighting, some dying or already dead. A groaning crack sounded behind her, followed by another and another. She turned as the tower before her split like a stricken oak, falling toward her and the bodies of her friends. Her aether surged forward, almost a reflex as a shield of stars and crystal formed around them.

A bone-jarring thud rattled through her body as the tower struck the shield… and held. Relief flooded her almost as quickly as the following panic. Stuck… she was _stuck._ The tower pressed mercilessly down upon her. The weight upon the shield was like a weight on her body and her muscles trembled as she sank to the ground, palms spread with all the aether she could muster straining to sustain the spell.

Pale and Nightbird slept on as she heaved her aether forward. She couldn’t let it fall. She couldn’t fail them. The tower pressed down, grinding her knees bloody against the jagged rubble. A crack, like the sound of an iced over lake splitting beneath a boot. The shield pulsed as spiderwebs of faltering light spread across its surface. Her ears flattened as a strangled whimper escaped her throat and cold dread flooded her being. _No. No, no, no, no, no!!!_

It wouldn’t hold. Couldn’t.

“Please... not them. Please!” Tears streamed down her face. “Just let it be me,” she prayed.

Her arms bowed against the incessant press of the tower, and she gave one final surge of her aether as she screamed.

*

Pain and a sudden snap against her aether made Nightbird yelp. The sky above them shattered into a hail of falling stars. Nightbird shuddered as she heard the scream - a sound that was neither draconic nor quite human. She looked around, eyes wild, but realized that the sound was centered on the physical world, bleeding over into the aetherial realm. _What is happening out there?_

Above her, Pale screamed as aether and white hot rage poured into his lance setting it aflame with black fire. The dragon turned to face him, opening his jaws and spreading his wings in mock invitation. He took aim at the dread wyrm’s heart, and hurled a searing bolt hot enough to pierce even Nidhogg’s armored hide and strike his accursed heart.

The spear struck true as a glint, like a mirror, flashed over the wyrm’s scales. Blinding light burst before Pale’s eyes, and he cried out as pain bloomed in his chest. His own weapon... A breath of shock escaped him as his hand closed around the spear’s shaft, and he fell.

Fire in her breast snapped Nightbird’s focus back to her friend, and she gasped as she saw the impaled dragoon fall. Nidhogg breathed a scornful laugh before turning his consciousness toward the physical realm, the pitiful creatures before him no longer unworthy of his full attention. Nightbird spread her arms wide and took flight, speeding her way towards Pale, snatching him from the “air” and returning to Estinien’s side.

She cradled Pale in her arms, tears scalding her cheeks. “No, no, no,” she muttered, “Don’t you dare die on us, Pale!” Her healing energies were only enough to silence his pain.

Pale lay still, his mind reeling and numb, torn between two worlds. He had heard Felina’s scream, felt her aether straining along with the terror, pain, and desperation that vibrated through their link. But it seemed only he had noticed the silence. She had been like a hum in the back of his head this entire time, a quiet song giving him the strength to focus, to fight, to not be overwhelmed by the incredible strangeness of this combat in another plane of existence. When the sky broke open above them, she vanished, leaving only an aching silence in her place.

He looked up at Estinien, and lifted his hand. The other dragoon reached out and clasped his forearm in a strong grip. “Listen to her,” Estinien growled. “You’re not allowed to die, not yet.”

“I’m sorry.” Pale felt strangely calm. “But I think I’m done here.” He gathered his focus and what was left of his strength, and willed his aether to go to Estinien.

Ebon flames crackled one final time, and seemed to pour along Pale’s arm and into Estinien. Blue-white aether flickered as his body dimmed, dispersing like smoke. Pale breathed a sigh - perhaps he would find her somewhere in all that silence - and then he was gone.

Nightbird sobbed, but Estinien caught her arm in a ferocious grip. “No time!” His voice was harsh. “Tend to your own survival, little bird - the wyrm comes!”

She felt as if her heart might hammer right out of her chest, and forced the terror away. She did not know what had happened to Felina, or whether Pale lay dying in the physical realm. But her beloved was not yet free and she _would not_ leave him this way, she _would not_ stop fighting.

She stood straight, and spun until she was standing behind Estinien, her hands on his shoulders. Her hands glowed as if white-hot, and she felt a tingling at her own shoulders. Then a burst of light - and in her peripheral vision she saw that she had sprouted wings of pure white aether.

“ _Strike!_ ” she cried to Estinien, and the dragoon swept his lance down at the last vestige of his bindings. Even as he swung the weapon, swirls of white seemed to flow up the shaft, and coalesced on the blade, until it burned bright as a falling star. Gae Bolg crashed into the vine made of Nidhogg’s will, and with a sound like stone cracking against stone, the vine broke and dissipated into black smoke.

Nidhogg screamed, fury igniting his eyes. _No! Thou canst not escape my wrath! Thou art bound to me, body and soul!_

Before either of them could respond, everything tilted once more. There was no up, there was no down - for an instant Nightbird lost control, and plummeted.

Nightbird shrieked, tumbling out of control, until an armored arm wrapped around her middle. With a wrench, Estinien had her, and leaped upward, towards the dragon that now writhed in the dark sky.

Nidhogg roared, an agonized sound, and Estinien spoke into Nightbird’s ear. “We have but one chance. If we strike together, we may yet pierce his heart.”

She set her hand over his, and nodded once. She did not speak, but began to hum, recalling how Felina had used song to strengthen her own magic. The first notes of the hymn to Halone floated out across the darkness, visible as diaphanous golden ribbons, fluttering as if in a breeze. Estinien’s arm tightened around her.

They rose together, and took aim at the wailing wyrm.

*

Lightning surrounded them. Nightbird could feel her fur, even her hair, standing out away from her skin. Sparks danced along Estinien’s armor, and one bounced into her hand, making her yelp. Blue flames licked along the dragoon’s body, enveloping them both.

Nightbird realized that Estinien could not carry her and still attack the wyrm. But she could no longer fly alone - then she almost cursed at herself. This place was not a physical one - her body was hers to shape as she willed! She concentrated, hard, and shifted herself until fur and hair became scales, until her body elongated, and she wound around her beloved, sinuous and smooth.

She felt Estinien’s reaction. “You have become a serpent?”

_The guardian serpent that defends one’s threshold, perhaps_ , Nightbird told him without words, and then flattened herself, becoming something more like another layer of armor, replacing the sullied crimson with her own black-purple colors. _Besides, this way, you have both hands free, and I can do more to protect you._

He did not reply, instead launching himself at their foe. She had deliberately diminished her own sight, making it easier to ignore the disorienting flashes of color and chaotic reversals of up and down. Now there was only the jolting motion of leaping, whirling, stabbing, slicing - a dance of death that made Estinien’s spirit sing. Her own spirit sang in counterpoint to his, weaving healing and protection around him, cushioning him against the strike of a wing or the touch of flame.

Nidhogg spun, almost as if standing on his own tail, and performed incredible maneuvers that ought not to have been possible for such an enormous creature. The wyrm was terrifying in his speed and ferocity. But Estinien was his match, and darted in and out, opening wounds with every strike, until the wyrm was bleeding from two dozen places.

They were no longer alone in the vast blackness of the dragon’s consciousness - for Nidhogg was battling against his brother in the physical realm even as he continued to fight them in the aetherial realm. Even with reduced vision, Nightbird could see flashes of sky, of wildly colored clouds. She could hear the roars of both combatants.

Estinien landed for an instant on Nidhogg’s spine, just between the wings. He braced himself, and then leaped, snarling. Nightbird felt his intention and flooded his arms with a burst of extra strength, burning her own life force to empower the strike.

Gae Bolg impacted on the wyrm’s great skull with a sickening crack.

Nidhogg made no sound, merely went limp; he was falling.

_Everything_ was falling.

Estinien relaxed into it, allowing his limbs to lie close together, as if shaping himself into an arrow. It made him fall all the faster, and kept him close to the fallen dragon. Nightbird hung on, her form incapable of crying out, and twined tightly around Estinien’s chest. She told herself to trust him - surely he knew what he was doing!

“One last strike – ” The dragoon told her.

She cast about, trying to look around. She felt, more than saw, Hraesvelgr. The great white dragon was diving after his brood brother, his speed amazing even to her blurred senses - his mouth was opened wide, preparing to blast Nidhogg with another attack.

She felt Estinien gasp even as she felt the dread wyrm’s aether _ignite_.

Abruptly Nidhogg’s form was outlined in flames, every scale ablaze, and he snapped out of his free-fall, claws and wings spread wide. Hraesvelgr could not swerve to avoid being grappled. Nidhogg snarled, and Nightbird felt the dark dragon’s jaws clash shut, saw the red of blood and sensed the fountain of aether, heard the white dragon cry out in agony.

Estinien shot past the two embattled dragons, cursing, unable to deliver the death blow.

The bodies of both dragons crashed into the Steps of Faith, and Estinien landed as well. The bridge was still solid in the aetherial realm. The lovers yet remained in that place beyond the waking world - but Nidhogg no longer held them strictly within his own aether and mind. They had broken free of him!

In the next instant she understood her mistake.

She yet bore her silver cord, the line that anchored her soul to her body. Estinien had not shown signs of such a cord before, while they remained trapped inside the dread wyrm’s form. But now - now there was some little distance between the soul and the body - and Estinien’s cord was thinner than her own, in danger of breaking completely.

What Nightbird did next, she could never have explained. All she knew was that she would not - _could not_ \- allow that cord to break. Freeing Estinien by allowing him to die was not acceptable!

She sank her energy into him, reaching deeper than before.

“What are you _doing_ , little bird?”

There was no time for her to explain. She poured her aether into that half formed bond between the two of them, willing the power directly into that silver tether, flooding her beloved with strength to bolster his will and his life force.

She knew she risked aether drain. She no longer cared. All her thoughts were focused on a single prayer now. Let him live. She would gladly give her life if need be. Only _let him live_ –

She felt Estinien’s protest. But it was too late, for even as she had opened the floodgates of her soul to empower her dragoon - Nidhogg screamed in rage.

Across the stones, both Nightbird and Estinien perceived a dense pillar of aether, a column of dark green, with restless coils of violet flame winding around and around it. _Berylla!_

The dread wyrm launched himself at the Warrior of Light.

Nightbird was no longer able to do more than observe. Her aether was nearly gone, her life force twined so tightly with Estinien's soul that she could not have let go if she had wanted to do so. She watched, therefore, as the wyrm leaped, as the Warrior did battle with him. Berylla had allies beside her - lesser flames in an array of colors that harried the dragon from every side.

With another roar, Nidhogg leaped into the air - and then he _pulled_ on his aether, and both Estinien and Nightbird found themselves yanked along as the dragon once more took on the shape of a man. Rejoined with his flesh, Estinien struggled to assert control. Nightbird tried to help, but her strength was spent.

Even faced with the terrifying combination of dragoon tactics and draconic strength, Berylla yet stood firm, screaming defiance at the wyrm, shouting Estinien’s name.

Nightbird could no longer see at all, only faintly sense aether moving around her, but she could yet feel her beloved. Estinien was rallying. The strength she had fed into him was having the effect she had prayed it would!

When at last the final blow was struck, it was Estinien’s true form that fell to its knees on the stones of the bridge. But the dragon was weakened: not yet _gone_.

*

Pale awoke with a gasp. His chest burned, and he coughed dust from his lungs. Particles hung suspended in the air, and he dragged himself to his feet. Bracing on the wall he wavered a moment, clutching his chest, as he cast his gaze around the battlefield. To his right, a tower, or what remained of it, lay shattered on the bridge. _That_ hadn’t been there before. Then he remembered the scream, and the panic he’d felt through the link before it disappeared suddenly. Memory bled into his reality. _Felina!_ He stumbled forward, wild-eyed, checking the rubble until he found a small, fair hand peeking out from the fallen stone.

“ _Felina!_ ” His voice scraped free from his throat as he knelt and began flinging stones aside. He struggled, his strength flagging as he rushed to uncover her. Please, please let her be alive! He pushed away a stone to find her head lying in a hollow, protected from the crush of the fallen debris. At the brush of his hand she stirred and began to cough. “Felina! Thank the gods!”

She groaned. “Pale?”

He reached for her face. “Where are you hurt?”

She grimaced. “Everywhere… but my arm… my side… those are the worst.”

Pale pulled her free, scowling sympathetically as she cried out in pain. Her left arm bent at an odd angle. Broken. He pressed gingerly along her side and she sucked in a breath. “We need to get you to a healer.” He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage that though. His own strength was fading fast.

“Where’s Nightbird?” She struggled to sit. “We need to make sure she’s okay.”

Pale panted, looking back over his shoulder at the dark Miqo’te’s slumped figure. “I think she’s still on the other side.”

“Take me to her.”

He started to argue with her. They were in no shape for this!

“ _Now_ , Pale.”

He looked down into her eyes. She wasn’t asking, and he couldn’t deny her.

Felina rolled to her knees, pushed up, and then fell with a bitten-off cry. “Fucking ankle.”

He grabbed her, pulling her into his arms; she hissed in the painful grasp, but hung on to him stubbornly. “Come on.”

His breath came heavier as he hefted her up, stumbling back toward their sleeping friend. His lungs rattled in his chest as he nearly dumped Felina at Nightbird’s side and sank to his knees beside them.

Felina pulled herself up to cup her friend’s face. “She’s cold.” She leaned her forehead against the other woman’s, and concentrated, listening as hard as she could with more than just her ears. After a moment she let out a choked sob. “I can’t _hear_ her… Pale, she’s quiet.”

He reached over to touch a dark cheek and found it to be eerily chilled. A worm of dread wriggled its way through his belly. He leaned in and pressed his own head against Nightbird's temple. Felina knelt there muttering quietly between sobs, and grief squeezed his chest… and then he realized the words were a song. She was singing, as best she could, a song familiar to him somehow… He mouthed the words along with her, singing a final song to their fallen friend.

And then a pulse. A drawn breath. Nightbird stirred, faintly, but still she was there. Felina took a breath and continued, this time Pale joined her, lending what little aether he had to pour into their sleeping friend.

Felina opened her eyes for a moment, determination solidifying in her gaze. “We’re bringing you home.”

He felt Felina’s aether reach out and _dive_.

*

Nightbird floated in shifting darkness, riding the currents of aether that flowed out into the Lifestream.

She felt calm. Strange. She had expected fear, or pain, but she instead felt simply - weightless, as if nothing really mattered anymore. A peaceful feeling.

She was glad that her last act had helped Estinien. She had given him all she had left, and he would live. She was certain of it. He would live, and those who loved him would keep him safe.

Materializing out of the aether, a hand reached out, taking her own. “We’ve got you. Come home.” The hand poured aether into her flagging spirit. She sensed Felina’s aether, and Pale’s – summer and winter together, colors shifting and swirling, rejuvenating her soul's fading hues. It pulled her away from the stream back towards pain and fear and life. “We’re waiting for you. _Estinien’s_ waiting for you. Come home, Nightbird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for letting me drag her OCs into all this!  
> And if you are interested in the various and wild misadventures of Felina and Pale (and a younger Nightbird!) please check out her work!


	28. Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightbird awakens to find her friends and her beloved are alive. But why does Estinien not wake...?

At first Nightbird thought she was having one of her nightmares, reliving the night she had lost her first beloved. She held still and waited, knowing that to struggle would only make the nightmare worse. But as she lay there in a haze of agony, she began to perceive little differences. The air here smelled pleasantly of lavender and valerian. There was a hint of warmth – a square of sunlight, her senses told her. There had been no sun in that little inn room, for it had been tucked into a north-facing section of the building.

She heard soft sounds. Footsteps, murmurs, the clink of glass on glass, the whisper of cloth. When someone moaned, a quiet sound of distress, she knew.

She was not asleep. She was not dead.

She _was_ , however, drained of aether, as she had been back then. White hot iron spikes were trying to ram their way into her skull through her eyes. Most of her other aches were minor by comparison. But even through the pain, the exhaustion, she _felt_ it.

Estinien's soul.

 _He is whole, he is alive, he is once more the sole occupant of his body. Thank the Twelve_...

She woke again. This time, she was able to open her eyes, and the man beside her bed smiled.

“It is good to see you awake, dear niece.”

“Wh-what...my lord...uncle...why are you...?”

Edmont reached out and patted her hand where it lay across her belly. “You and your comrades were found unconscious near what was left of a tower.”

“Es-Estinien?” She coughed, and Edmont held up one hand.

“I promise to tell you what I know, but first allow me to fetch one of the healers over.”

She bit her lip, but nodded. The old lord rose, leaning on his cane more than usual, and moved out of her line of sight.

She looked around, and saw that she was on a cot, in a space defined by simple cloth barriers. _The infirmary must be very full. How heavy were our losses?_

However, when a familiar face came around the curtain, she swallowed hard.

Y'Shtola's eyes had changed, from sea-green to an uncanny silver. But her expression was much the same as Nightbird remembered.

“It is good to see you awake once more,” the Archon said quietly.

Nightbird could not hold the other woman's gaze. She averted her eyes and nodded without speaking.

Y'Shtola moved closer, and with practiced movements, helped Nightbird sit up, and helped her drink a bit of water. Even with her aether so depleted, the bard could feel the white mage's energies threading across and through her.

“Please,” Nightbird whispered. “The others...?”

“They woke, and are yet resting,” the Seeker answered briefly. “They are too weak to leave their beds.” She took Nightbird's chin in her fingers and made the bard look her in the face. “You may expect much the same. All three of you were badly drained.”

“But we were able to help.” Nightbird's voice wobbled. “I am glad they did not die.”

“You may be glad that they had enough to spare to rescue you.” Then, Y'Shtola shook her head. “You are quite the resilient one. Once you are capable of walking unaided, you will be free to go.”

“And Estinien?”

Y'Shtola let go of her chin, and looked away. “He yet sleeps.”

“He _is_ alive. He _is_ whole.”

The white mage looked back at her. For an instant she looked as if she were about to ask a question. Then, her brows knit as she peered at the bard. “Ah. So you were why the lancer was asking about aether entanglement.”

Nightbird lifted her chin. “I do not regret what I did.”

“Good.”

Nightbird, braced to argue, blinked twice.

Y'Shtola's smile was a welcome sight. “You will need that sort of faith if you are to remain in this city,” she told the bard. “I am aware of your place here, of what you have accomplished, and what you hope to do. I wish you well, Kevala.”

“Th-thank you.”

The white mage didn't say another word, just got up and left, the curtain swishing as she passed through it. Nightbird felt as if her heart rippled in a similar fashion.

Lord Edmont came in again, and sat down in the chair beside the bed. Nightbird looked at him, and then held out her hand, feeling shy. The old lord took her fingers in his, and smiled at her. His hand was cool and dry and comforting.

“Thank you for taking so much time to look in on me,” she began, then stopped when Edmont shook his head.

“I have little else but time,” he answered. “Those others whom I might worry for do not require it, Fury be praised.”

Nightbird's ears twitched. “Your sons...?”

“Artoirel took only a minor wound, and did not require the infirmary at all. Emmanellain stood upon the walls and made a good accounting for himself among the defenders there.” Edmont smiled again. “Ser Aymeric was, happily, unhurt. Young Alphinaud...” His smile faded only a little. “By this time, I expect our Warrior of Light has waylaid him and forced him to take a rest from his vigil at the Azure Dragoon's bedside.”

“On his knees, praying, all night?” Nightbird guessed.

“In very deed.” Edmont's chuckle was soft, fond. “He is a most loyal friend, is Master Leveilleur.”

“Yes,” she smiled back at him. “He is.”

Alphinaud came to visit her, briefly, later in the day.

“You look less tired than I might have expected,” she commented, and he laughed, a very quiet and self-deprecating sound.

“Only because Berylla bullied me into resting.” He pretended to a pout. “I have only just been allowed to return.”

“Is she...?”

“She is well. Of us all, she seems to have bounced back the fastest.”

“Count Edmont wasn't able to tell me,” Nightbird picked at a rough spot on the blanket. “But you have been at his bedside – Alphinaud, how is Estinien, truly?”

“Asleep.” The scholar shook his head. “I am very sorry, Nightbird, but I truly cannot say more than that. There are no physical issues that the doctors can find, but his aether is...” Alphinaud's lips twisted as he searched for words. “I have not the experience to do more than guess, please be aware. But given what you and I discussed before – and what he endured – I think his soul may be hiding, in a sense.” He lifted his hand, and Nightbird saw that most of the fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. He grimaced at his own unconscious gesture and set his hand back down. “Krile examined him personally, and her own best guess is that he is – for lack of a better analogy – wrapped in a shell.”

“He _is_ there,” she insisted quietly.

“He is.” Alphinaud's nod was firm. “I believe that with all my heart. We did not fail him.” Then he gave her a narrow look. “Have you been told how close you came to death?”

“A few times.” Nightbird's smile was weary. “It was not the safest plan, but I am sure you can understand why I could not simply wait and watch and pray.”

He bowed his head. “Yes. I do understand.” He kept his eyes down as he spoke. “You have been a valuable ally, Nightbird. But more than that, I have come to regard you as a true friend. I would have been very unhappy to lose yet another comrade.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “I am most honored to know you consider me a friend, given the uncertainties you labored under when we first met. I, too, have grown quite fond of you.”

His ear tips turned a bit pink, and she chuckled just a little. “I must also thank you.”

“Me?” He met her eyes, surprised.

“You brought two people back into my life that I thought long lost, never to return.”

His mouth opened slightly. She smiled at him, and patted his hand once more.

“If not for you, I might never have been able to reconnect with Felina, or with Pale. They were – and are – very important to me. So, thank you, Alphinaud.”

He swiped at his bangs, and smiled back.

*

Sleeping was surprisingly difficult. The medicines helped some of the pain, but there was little that any herb could do, to ease the ache caused by aether drain. Nightbird's skin crawled, now and again, and if she had not known better, she would have said her bones were humming. But she did know: the phantom sensations were merely an effect caused by the speed with which her body was taking in aether to replace what she had spent. For a normal body, merely sleeping would be all that was needed to renew and re-balance the aether. Even for most cases of magical injury, simple sedation would achieve a deep enough state of rest to allow the natural processes to run their course.

But she had been much more exhausted than any normal situation would have brought about. She suspected that what she and Felina and Pale had done was... Unprecedented, at the least, certainly dangerous, and very possibly unreproducible. She was only grateful that no one had thus far come to try and interrogate her about the matter. The only people who even knew what they had set out to do were Alphinaud, Y'Shtola, and their associate.

 _Raha would have pestered us all to get down as much information as he could, just for the sake of having records of the attempt_.

She turned over yet again, wincing both at her physical discomfort and at the inevitable stab of grief that accompanied any thought of her lost love.

Her ear twitched. Someone was approaching her little space. A halting footstep – no, two people. Limping?

She turned over, and leaned up on her arm, carefully.

The curtain shifted, billowed, then parted to let in two figures. In the dim light, there was little clue as to who they were – only that one was a good deal taller than the other, and both had pale hair... But she knew. Her heart told her, even if her aether and her eyes could not.

“Felina – Pale – you...shouldn't you be resting?”

“Couldn't,” Pale said shortly. He sounded winded. “She wouldn't quit whining.”

“I wasn't _whining_ ,” Felina panted. “Asshole.”

They were leaning against each other, almost as if drunk; even as Nightbird sat up, Pale helped Felina into the chair beside the bed, and then leaned heavily on the back of it.

Nightbird put her legs over the side of the bed. Tears and laughter warred inside of her, and she coughed, then sniffled, and finally managed to speak. “You didn't have to...”

But even as she spoke, her hands were going out towards Felina, fingers tangling together with her friend's and holding hard. Both of them were shaking.

“We did it,” she whispered. “We saved him, Felina. I can't...I'll never be able to thank you enough for trusting me, for helping me.”

“You don't have to thank me. I love you, and you needed me. It's what real friends do for each other.” Felina's voice was rough with tears. “You scared the hells out of me, Nightbird... You almost died.”

“I know. Both of you were almost as badly off as me.” Nightbird lost what little hold she had on her feelings then. Tears splashed across their joined hands. Pale eased himself down onto one knee, between the two women, and laid his arms across their shoulders.

Weak as all three of them were, they could not link aether. Connected only by touch, by affection, and by the need for comfort – it was enough. They shared tears of relief, of gratitude, of pain. Words did not matter, and so none of them spoke. But when at last they straightened, when cheeks were dried and composure regained – there was a sense of lightness among the three of them. As if this final sharing of hearts had allowed them to let go of all that had weighed down their friendship.

Nightbird squeezed Felina's hands once more. “You really should get back to bed. You need rest, dearest.”

“They wouldn't tell me anything,” Felina sighed. “Much less let me come see you. So I...”

“Whined,” Pale said, but there was a playfulness to his tone, and this time, Felina chuckled.

Slowly, the two got back to their feet. A final touching of hands – and then they left, as quietly as they had come. Nightbird sat there, thinking about all she had lost – all she had found – and all she had regained. Thinking of Raha no longer hurt her as much as it had in the days just after he went away; that old wound, too, was healing.

 _Life moves on, with or without you_. She sighed. _Twelve watch over him. Let him awaken to the world he dreamed of, a world of peace and kindness._

She lay down once more, weariness making her limbs heavy. _Let Estinien wake to a world like none he has ever known. A world with no more war against the dragons. A world where he can be himself, where he can set duty aside at long last and simply live._

She closed her eyes, and slept.

*

The next morning, Nightbird was able to walk again. True to what Y'Shtola had told her, she was permitted – encouraged, even – to go back to the manor. Once there, she took herself straightaway into her bathing chamber.

The doctors had taken care not to let her closely inspect her own injuries. She had felt them – and had somewhat probed them with her aether – but actually laying eyes on them was a different matter.

She ran a finger along her left leg, not quite touching the long scars that marred the outside of her thigh and calf. Her Blessing helped her body heal at an accelerated rate, and often made her wounds seem less serious than they truly were. A normal person would be yet laid up in a bed from whatever had done her an injury – falling masonry, according to what Edmont had heard. An entire tower had fallen nearly on top of their position.

She would have to ask Felina, someday, to tell her more. But not soon. Her friends had been allowed to leave the infirmary some hours before she herself was released. They had stopped by to see her once more, and had mentioned only that Pale wished to visit certain family members, before the two of them headed back to their own homes. There had been an eagerness between them – it made her smile to remember it. She had gently shooed them away. Let them enjoy each other; they certainly had a lot of time to make up for.

As she stood before her mirror in her own room, dressed in a soft woolen gown, she ran her fingers through her hair. It was shot through with wide streaks of white, and her eyes had lightened, from amber to topaz. She bit her lip. She could not say that she looked old...but she looked _odd_.

There was a tap on her door, and she hurried to answer it.

She opened the door, and blinked to see Honoroit. “Ah – hm?” She coughed a little. “Honoroit, it is good to see you, but I – ah – is Lord Edmont asking for me?”

“Not at all, milady.” The young man bowed, and gave her a charming smile. The scar above his eye gave him quite a rakish look, and well he knew it. “I am sent to deliver letters to you, and warmest regards from your friends.” He pulled two envelopes from his coat, and presented them to her.

Nightbird took them, and managed a smile. “Thank you, Honoroit.”

“May I also say, my master Emmanellain and I are both very glad to see you recovered and safely home once more?”

“You may,” and her smile widened. “You rascal. You've been practicing, have you?”

The expression Honoroit showed her then could only be called a smirk. “I have been most dedicated in emulating my master's smoothest manners.”

Nightbird laughed at that. “Well, young charmer, you are doing well thus far.”

He grinned, and gave her another bow before taking himself off down the hall. Nightbird closed her door, and slowly walked to her table, looking at the envelopes in her hand as she sat down.

She opened the first letter.

_Miss Kevala_

_This letter should be delivered unto you only when you are home and recovered, and therefore let me first extend my thanks for your efforts on behalf of Ishgard – and Estinien. I was most relieved to be informed that though you sustained injury, your recovery was assured; and I rejoice in the return of our dear friend to us._

_I am loathe to intrude upon your recovery time. Alas, I cannot escape my duties long enough for a visit to House Fortemps. Therefore, I should be most glad if you would visit me as soon as you may, that I might thank you in person._

_Humbly,_

_Lord Aymeric de Borel_

She sat and regarded the letter for a long moment, then set it aside and opened the second one.

_Nightbird._

_I am unable to personally speak with you, much as I would like to do so. However, I am fully aware of what you've been up to, young lady, and I shall have some words for you when next we meet face to face. But I have duties elsewhere, and information that cannot wait until my return to Ishgard._

_There are forces moving from the shadows. Pay particular attention to rumors of new heroes. Someone or something is stirring up trouble – only for that trouble to fade as abruptly as it begins. It is strange and worrisome and stinks of Ascian involvement, but that is all I can find at this time._

_I will be gone for some months on an eastward journey. I entrust Ishgard to you, as I have entrusted the other cities to their caretakers. I trust in your stalwart faith and stubborn spirit, and in the strength of your friendships._

_Speaking of friendship. Berylla Seahawk will, sometime in the next week or so, go on an abrupt and seemingly mysterious journey, leaving very little other than a note to reassure her friends._

_When that happens, you will know about it, I am sure._

_When she returns, you may approach her at last. I cannot give you details that I do not have, only the timing. How you choose to handle associating with her is entirely up to you._

_I wish you the best of luck. Knowing Berylla, you'll likely need it._

_If it would do me any good, I would tell you to leave off meddling with aether bonds, but I am well aware that you will ignore me and do as you please. It is one of your charms._

_I beg of you, use caution and patience and all of the good sense with which I know you are blessed. I would much prefer to return from the East to find you hale and whole, so that I may bend your ear about the many risks you've already taken!_

_With affection,_

_Marius._

She snorted as she set down Marius' letter. The news of trouble brewing was hardly a surprise. Of course she would watch over Ishgard – just as she had done without being asked.

But to be able to speak with Berylla... For that much, she was glad of his message.

*

A few hours later, she made her way to the Seat of the Lord Commander. Ser Aymeric's new position as Speaker for Parliament had not come with a new office, and he had not been relieved of his duties as Lord Commander. Therefore, he remained in the same location. Nightbird wondered briefly, as she stood just inside the door of the Congregation catching her breath, if Aymeric had kept things that way merely to avoid spending coin on new construction, or for more personal reasons. Well, not that it was any business of hers; she would be much better served by speculating on things that she could affect.

Ser Handeloup noticed her, and stepped over to speak quietly. “Miss Kevala, you are here to see the Lord Commander, I presume? He left word that you were to be admitted should you visit.”

“I am content to make an appointment if need be...”

“Oh, not at all. Please, follow me; I was about to go speak to him myself.”

“Very well.” She fell into step beside the Temple Knight. She appreciated that he took care not to stride too swiftly – while making it look like he was _not_ altering pace to accommodate her.

They came to Ser Aymeric's office soon enough, and with a small bow, Ser Handeloup showed her in.

Ser Aymeric looked up, and smiled broadly when he saw Nightbird. “Ah! Miss Kevala – I had not expected to see you today, but I am most pleased by this surprise.”

She settled for merely smiling back at him, and eased herself closer to the wall, tacitly “stepping away” so that the two knights could have their conversation first. She turned her attention politely to examining a nearby carving instead.

Whatever it was they needed to speak about, it was dealt with in just a few cryptic phrases. She had done her time of service with the Gridanian forces – and served in one of the Grand Companies, later – but it had been quite some time since she had needed to parse military jargon.

But she still knew a dismissal when she heard one, and brought her attention back as Ser Handeloup bowed, gave her a friendly smile, and left.

Aymeric came around his desk even as she stepped towards the center of the room. He took one of her hands in his own, and bowed over it. “Thank you once again,” he told her in a quiet voice.

She gazed at him. “Is he...?”

He let go of her hand, and shook his head. “Not yet. I have left very strict orders that I am to be informed the moment there is any change.”

She frowned. “I confess I have lost track of days since the battle, but...?”

He smiled gently. “The doctors are not yet worried for him. His body seems well, and he simply...sleeps.” He shook his head again, his sapphire earring catching the light as it swayed with his movement. “Y'Shtola examined him as well, and said much the same – that he will wake when he is ready to do so.”

“And Alphinaud? I had heard he was keeping vigil most diligently.” Her lips quirked.

Aymeric's mouth curved slightly in answer to that. “He has indeed been most stubborn. Fortunately, Berylla is well able to deal with him.”

Then, he gestured toward the door. “Come. I imagine you would like to look in on Estinien yourself, yes?”

Nightbird's mouth opened for a moment in surprise, but she nodded quickly. “Yes, I very much would.”

Aymeric led her down a set of corridors, and presently they came to a wide door. “He is here.” He turned to face her. “I shall make certain that Captain Whitecape knows that you are to be permitted access just the same as Master Alphinaud has been.”

“Th-thank you.” She looked up at the Lord Commander. “You – have been more than generous, Ser Aymeric. I...have not the words to express...”

“There is no need.” His smile made her feel as if he were hugging her. “Estinien is my best friend. I can do no less for the woman for whom he cares so much.”

Her cheeks burned and she bent her head. Aymeric set his hand on her shoulder, very lightly.

“I beg of you only this. Safeguard his heart. And if ever you need – _anything_ – including hitting him over the head should that be necessary – call on me.”

With those remarkable words, the Lord Commander turned and left her there.

Nightbird set her hands on the door, and took a deep breath. Then, she pushed, gently.

The hinges made no sound as she eased her way inside. The room was bright, with sunlight flooding in through a large window near the bed; a well made fire crackled in the large fireplace at one end of the room. No curtain barriers and extra cots, here: the quality of the room itself and its furnishings told her that this was a chamber reserved for the highest ranked officers.

She let the door close. Alphinaud was not present – but it was meal time, and perhaps Berylla had hauled the young man off again, to press him into eating and caring for himself.

She went to the side of the bed.

Estinien lay, still and silent beneath the blanket. His breaths were even and slow.

She reached for him, sliding her fingers softly across his hand, tracing the fine strong bones from wrist to knuckles, then curling her hand around his. There was no response, no tensing of his thumb against her fingers, not so much as a twitch of his eyelids.

But his pulse beat strong where her fingers pressed against his hand, and his skin was properly warm, and she could hear his breathing, see his chest rise and fall. She forced herself to focus on those signs of life.

She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over, so that she could lay her head on his chest. She did not let go of his hand as she pressed her ear against him, listening to the strong steady beat of his heart. Tears gathered in her eyes. Her aether was not recovered enough for her to offer him a speck of energy.

“Oh, Mother Nophica, protect him,” she whispered. “Menphina, grant us your mercy...”

She had long believed in the Twelve. There could be no other explanation for the fact that she had survived her childhood: only the will of the gods could have guided her path so. Many folk would not agree with her, but she cared not for opinions. Faith was a personal thing, in her mind. Grand churches were well and good, but they were not the same as what one held in one's heart.

She had always prayed, for as long as she could remember. Little prayers, almost more ritual than meaningful; most frequently she had recited the prayers for the dead, for even when she slew an enemy, that soul deserved the blessing that would see it safely to the Lifestream.

But now, she prayed as she had prayed when she was yet a slave cowering in her cell of a night. She prayed like a lonely and terrified child, prayed as she did in her nightmares, prayed as if her life depended on it.

But all too soon, she was out of prayers to say, and still Estinien slept.

She wanted to stay – but she knew all too well that her body was not recovered enough for any such heroics as an all night vigil. Or even staying more than an hour. She was too exhausted even to entertain more than a flicker of frustration.

She took herself home, ate food, drank medicinal tea, took a dose of the sleeping tincture Alphinaud had made for her to use on Pale. She moved in a fog of worry and barely suppressed tears, and before the sun had set, she was lying in her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

As she waited for the medicines to ease her into slumber, she prayed once again, silently.

 _Let him wake. Let him wake. Let him wake_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [kittysomerville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysomerville/pseuds/kittysomerville) for letting me drag her OCs into all this!  
> And if you are interested in the various and wild misadventures of Felina and Pale (and a younger Nightbird!) please check out her work!


	29. Blessings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien, you are being most difficult...

Nightbird crawled out of bed. By the sun streaming in through her window she knew it was already past mid-morning. It had been a far better rest during the night, to be sleeping in her own bed, in the dimness she preferred, in the quiet she knew...and no doubt the valerian hadn't hurt... But now her mouth felt as if an entire herd of karakul had wandered across it, and they'd apparently stuffed her sinuses with their wool while they were at it.

She managed to get herself into the bath. The steam helped, as did liberal use of her tooth powder. By the time she was finishing a cup of tea, she felt mostly functional.

She stood still for a long moment in front of her wardrobe, considering her mental and physical state. At last, she reached in and took out one of her adventuring outfits – a new pair of spike heeled boots, dark blue instead of her favorite red, a loose tunic, and a tightly laced vest that matched the boots. She smiled slightly, thinking of how Estinien might react if he noticed the colors.

If he had awakened.

Her smile faded, and she finished dressing.

Her mood remained pensive as she walked to the Congregation, and up to the infirmary door. She came inside, and paused at the large desk. “I wish to see Ser Estinien,” she told the fresh-faced young hospitalier knight who waited there. “I am Nightbird Kevala. I should be on a list, from what I was told.”

“Oh?” The young man raised his eyebrows, a hint of doubt in his eyes. But he dutifully glanced down at the thin book that lay open before him. After a moment, he blinked, and then he looked at her a second time, and blinked again. “Oh, my apologies – Miss Kevala, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you are on the list for Ser Estinien. Again, apologies,” he blushed slightly, “I did not see the note from yesterday when I came on shift this morning.”

She shrugged. “Apology accepted.” Then she gave him a small smile. “I know the way.”

She felt his eyes on her as she went down the hall, but it did not trouble her. By this point, if there was anyone within the Temple Knights at least that did not have some inkling of her association with Estinien – well, that was not something that concerned her. Even if there was some sort of disapproval of the Azure Dragoon becoming entangled with an outsider...no one was going to easily sway Ser Aymeric from the decisions he had thus far made. Her reputation as a musician was secured, and at this point, she ought to be regarded nearly as well as any of the knights who had fought the Horde on the bridge that day.

She heard voices as she turned the corner and entered the corridor along which Estinien's room was located. Even as she glanced ahead, she saw his room's door open.

Berylla stepped out into the hall, followed closely by Alphinaud, and then Aymeric.

She eased to the side, giving room for the three of them to pass her. Berylla was speaking to Alphinaud, and barely glanced at Nightbird; but Aymeric caught the bard's eye, and his smile – full of relief and reassurance – made her nearly weep.

She let them turn the corner before she hurried her steps to the dragoon's room.

Captain Whitecape looked up as the door opened, a frown creasing his brow. But when he saw it was Nightbird, he stopped frowning, and simply nodded. “He sleeps once more,” he told her, in a quiet, but comforting voice. “He spoke at some length with the Lord Commander – wore himself out with words, I should say. He may not wake for some time, but worry not: his body and his aether are well on the way to full recovery.”

“I would sit with him, if I may.” She didn't look at the knight, unable to tear her eyes off Estinien's face.

“You are welcome to do so. Ser Aymeric made himself quite clear yesterday afternoon.” He cleared his throat, and Nightbird managed to glance at him. “In fact, your presence may do him a deal of good. His condition strengthened quite a bit yesterday after your visit.”

Before she could react to that astonishing statement, the man left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The silence in the room deepened.

After a long moment she went to the bed, and sat on the edge of it, as she had before.

His skin seemed warmer now. The sunlight touched his hair, his face, and she let her fingers drift across him. Her aether, still weak, skimmed across his, and this time, though his body did not move, he _reacted_.

His aether pulled away from hers.

She stifled a gasp, choked down the hurt, and took his hand in hers.

Estinien drifted. He had been injured before; he knew how to handle the simple fatigue that came from healing. There was an almost pleasant sort of fog that shrouded one's mind at such times.

This drifting was not the same as that fog.

It was darker, this place inside his head – a dimly illuminated place, populated by ghosts and memories and things he did not want to face in the light. Could not face.

Haurchefant, and that damned grin of his.

The taste of wine on Aymeric's mouth.

The sharp smell of a coming snowstorm, and the sharper knowledge that the cold would kill yet more innocents down in the Brume.

A woman's hum...

No.

He had no right to think of her. He had lost any such privilege.

Her voice threaded around him, and slowly he realized this was not memory any longer. Hands held his. A weight pressed into the mattress beside him, too substantial to be Alphinaud, and anyway the boy would not be _holding hands_ with him.

At first, realizing Nightbird was real, and sitting beside him, and singing to him – the knowledge that she had not died in her mad gambit to save him – joy blazed through him, so strong that it hurt. But hard on the heels of that joy – the guilt, the pain of knowing what he had done to her.

He kept his eyes closed.

“I know you're awake,” Nightbird said. “I know you can hear me. Why won't you speak to me, Estinien?”

There was no response, just as there had been no response to her singing. Except that his aether was restless, brushing against her and then flinching away.

She leaned forward, and rested her cheek on his chest, splaying her hand flat against his body. This time she felt him tremble, ever so slightly, heard his breath hitch.

“Is it because of what Nidhogg did to me?” she whispered. When he flinched, she shut her eyes.

Her aether was so weak, but damn it all...

She reached for him, hand and mind and soul.

She still held his hand; now she lifted his fingers to her mouth, and kissed each one in turn.

“I love you,” she told him. “Nothing that Nidhogg did was your fault, or your doing.”

She leaned up enough to look at his face.

His jaw was tight, and a hint of dampness crept from the corner of his eye.

“Estinien...please.” Her voice shook. “Speak to me. Smile at me. Anything – don't push me away like this.” But he did not move. She grimaced, teeth bared, and tried another tactic.

“Damn it, dragoon – stop being a bloody coward and look at me at least!”

Estinien's hand tightened on hers. He did not open his eyes. If he looked on her, he would be lost – he would give in, would touch her, and he would hurt her again.

He had to make her leave. It was the only way to keep her safe.

“You should not be here, little bird.”

He heard how she gasped, felt her body pressing against his, how she was shaking. He felt, too, how weak she was, the vibrancy of her presence dulled, muted. She should be in a bed, most likely, but instead she was here, wasting her time on a monster.

“You would be far wiser to avoid me,” he grated. “Leave me.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks and dropped onto the blanket that covered him.

“No.”

The word was a bare whisper, but her soul was shouting.

But now Estinien was pulling his hand away, turning his face toward the window.

“I am a monstrosity,” he told her, his voice hard. “You have no business with me, woman. Get out.”

“No! I won't abandon you,” she wept. “Monster or not, I won't – ”

“I said get out.”

She sucked in a breath, choking off her sobs, and stared at him. She knew what he was about, knew what he thought he was doing... She didn't need him to protect her, she didn't want to leave his side, but he would not listen to her, not now – and she didn't have the words she needed to make him understand.

She reached for his hand, began to lean in again. She had no _words_ , but by Menphina she might still get through to him with her body –

The door opened.

“Oh,” Alphinaud paused. “My apologies...”

“She was just leaving,” Estinien growled.

Nightbird jolted back from the dragoon, and he tugged his hand loose from hers once more.

She stood up and walked quickly to the door, without another word.

“Nightbird, wait – ”

Alphinaud followed her out into the corridor, letting the door shut, and touched her arm.

She stopped, and looked at him. Tears gleamed on her cheeks, and her ears drooped.

“He doesn't mean it,” the scholar blurted.

“I know.” Her voice was thick, and trembled. “He thinks he's protecting me. The dolt.”

“Give him time.” Alphinaud squeezed her shoulder. “He must surely be exhausted yet...”

“He is...” She trailed off, and then shook her head. “I will go, for now.”

“I will stay with him, but...if you wish it...I will come and visit with you, after supper?” He felt idiotic, offering such faint comfort, but he was uncertain what else he could do.

He felt even more awkward when she turned toward him and leaned against him for an instant. But, he patted her shoulders, and managed to stand firm when she hugged him. He was not at all accustomed to comforting weeping females...or even to hugging them, if he was honest. Alisaie eschewed most public displays of affection – and anyway, she rarely wept.

Certainly none of the young ladies he had passed time with in Revenant's Toll had needed comforting.

And as for Berylla... He made himself not think about that.

Fortunately for his composure, Nightbird straightened after only a few moments. She scrubbed one hand across her cheek, and gave him a wan smile.

“I appreciate the offer,” she sniffled. “But I am not the one who needs your presence.”

“Perhaps I might speak to Estinien...?”

But she shook her head. “Do not waste your breath, Alphinaud. He...” Her voice trailed off once more, and her tail lashed. “I am not giving up on him. But he clearly needs time.”

“I do wish there were something I could do to help,” Alphinaud answered. He swiped at his bangs.

“Be there for him,” she told him. “Be his friend. If he can bring himself to believe that he yet deserves friendships...that will help. He would never admit to it...but he is afraid, Alphinaud. There is naught to be done – he must find his own way out of that. All we can really do is be here.”

“Then that is what I shall do.”

“I know he will be glad of it. Even if he says otherwise.” She managed another smile, and then turned away, leaving the young scholar standing in the hall, looking after her with a worried frown.

She walked into Ser Aymeric's office, twenty minutes after leaving Estinien's sick-room, and the Lord Commander cocked his head at her the moment he saw how her tail lashed.

“I take it,” the dark haired Elezen drawled, “that Estinien was less than pleasant to visit?”

“You are familiar with him,” she answered. Her tone held bitterness and humor in equal measure. “You know how much of a stubborn ass he can be.”

“Oh yes. The more so when his feelings are involved. He can be most infuriating.”

“He ordered me to get out.”

Aymeric got up and came around his desk. “I would offer to hit him over the head, but I suspect that is not what you are here to request.”

She snorted, appreciating the small quip. But she shook her head, and crossed her arms. Her tail ceased lashing, and wrapped around her waist.

“He thinks he is protecting me,” she said quietly. The words were no easier to say the second time. “He blames himself for...what happened.”

Aymeric regarded her. “I was told that you were hurt,” he said slowly, “and I inferred somewhat more than that. What you are saying is...”

“That Estinien believes himself responsible for raping me,” Nightbird said, her words blunt and harsh. “Which is utterly idiotic, for I _know_ he was not in control at that time. But he has pushed me away. He is determined to...to _spare_ me.” She spat the word like a curse.

Aymeric held a hand out toward her, but she eased back a half step, and he let his hand fall back to his side. “What would you ask of me, then?”

“He will try to run,” she said. “I hope – I pray – that he will come speak to you at least once, before he flees out into the wilderness. If you can make him come to you, make him stay for long enough...let me get him face to face, get him _looking_ at me. If I have that opportunity...I can get through to him. I'm certain of it.” Her mouth twisted. “And if I cannot, then at least I will have tried.”

“I will do my best.”

“Then I will go home,” she said. “I will rest, and I will wait for your word.” She started to turn towards the door, then paused, and looked over her shoulder. “Oh. Also. I will most gladly accept the title of Songstress Laureate – and all the responsibilities that I hope you will expect of me. With Estinien, or without him...Ishgard is my home, now. I shall do all I can to support her.”

The way Aymeric's eyes lit at her words made her smile, faintly; but she did not linger. She turned back to the door and walked out, and took herself home to Fortemps Manor.

“You ought to sit up and eat.”

“Why are you still hanging about like a nanny?” Estinien grimaced, even as he obeyed Alphinaud's soft suggestion.

The scholar didn't respond to the jab, merely settling the tray over the dragoon's lap.

Estinien poked at the bowl with his spoon. “At least they are letting me have real food,” he muttered, then attacked the stew, stuffing his mouth full of potatoes so that he need not try to talk.

Alphinaud sat down in the chair beside the bed, and crossed his ankles, waiting in silence.

Estinien's eyes kept drifting over to the younger man, even though he was doing his level best to devour his food in a manner more in keeping with a ravenous dragon than a civilized person. But not a hint of disapproval crossed the Sharlayan youth's face. Even when Estinien let out a belch and did not excuse himself for it.

Nothing but that patient waiting.

It was like to drive him mad.

Finally the stew was gone; the little half-loaf of bread had been used to sop up every speck of remaining broth; and even the glass of milk was empty. Estinien set his spoon down with a clatter and sat back. “There.”

But Alphinaud's calm did not flicker, even at this rudeness. He merely stood up, took the tray, and walked out into the hallway with it. The door did not even shut – Estinien watched as the young scholar set the tray down on a table out in the hall and immediately came back into the room.

As he sat down once more, Estinien snapped, “I had to send her away, you know.”

Alphinaud's eyebrows rose. “Did you?”

The dragoon eyed the scholar, his brows drawing down into a glower. “Don't try to convince me that I was wrong to do it.”

“Have I said aught?”

Well, no, he hadn't. But Estinien couldn't seem to shut up.

“She is better off without me. I am a monster, now.”

“I disagree; you are most certainly still yourself.”

Estinien glared. “ _You_ shouldn't be here either.”

“When you feel well enough to get out of your sick bed and throw me out,” Alphinaud answered, his face serene, “Then I will leave.”

“You cheeky little git, I ought to do just that.”

Alphinaud only settled back in his chair, once more just _waiting_.

Estinien snarled silently, and looked away, out the window. He crossed his arms.

Damn it, they should all leave him alone. Why weren't they throwing him out of the city? He was every bit as bad as the worst heretic – taking on the form of a dragon, raining destruction on his city and his countrymen. He should be in the dungeons beneath the Vault, his hide flayed, his eyes put out, his limbs broken, his corpse hung from the walls...

A shudder went across him as an insidious inner voice whispered to him.

 _If they won't punish you as you deserve, perhaps you should do it yourself._..

He had never held with the more extreme tortures inflicted on the heretics. But he had never hated the heretics the way he hated himself in this moment.

“I am going to leave Ishgard,” he said, still looking towards the window. Night was falling, and he could see his reflection. The panes distorted his image – a wavering, warped version of himself, snarling back at him.

Fitting.

“Why?”

“I have no purpose here. I am no longer the Azure Dragoon,” Estinien answered. “I belong...somewhere else.”

“Your friends are here,” Alphinaud's voice was matter of fact. “I am sure Ser Aymeric would prefer that you stay. Ishgard is your home, Estinien.”

“Ishgard is no home for dragons, or their ilk,” he snapped.

“That may change, now that the Dragonsong War is ended.”

“ _I am not fit to stay here!_ ”

Estinien's shout surprised both of them. Alphinaud's eyes were wide as the dragoon stared him down. Then, Estinien clawed open the loose tunic he wore, and stripped it off over his head.

“Look at me, Alphinaud. _Look at me!_ I am not who I was. I do not _belong_ here.”

But even as the scholar looked him over, there was no fear, no disgust, as there ought to be. Estinien turned his eyes to his own arms and chest, and his lip curled in revulsion.

Ugly scars marred his arms – remnants of the damage done by Nidhogg's Eyes. Skin rucked up and reddened as if he had been burned, whorls of scar tissue and strange dark lines running parallel to his veins, from wrist to shoulder – his nails were black, now, and pointed like talons. He had not yet tried to cut them, but he feared that they would be just the same as dragon claws.

His chest was scarred as well: the shape of a dragon as seen from below, wings spread wide, as if some sadist like Charibert had gouged the image into his flesh with red hot steel.

He spread his hands over his chest; the dragon's wings were wider than his palms. “I shall _never_ be the same,” he rasped.

“But you are free, now,” Alphinaud said. His voice was steady. “You are no longer possessed, and Nidhogg is dead and gone. He can never harm you, or anyone, ever again.”

Estinien's eyes stung. “The harm he did will never heal.” He could not stop himself. “She will never forgive me for what I did to her, Alphinaud. Never.”

“It seems to me that she might be willing to try.”

The dragoon flinched. “I cannot bear to look at her.”

“Do you hate her, then?”

“ _Hate her?_ Have you become an idiot while I was away? I would sooner cut off my arms than hate Nightbird.”

“Hm.” The scholar crossed his arms. “Interesting.”

Estinien eyed the younger man, cross and out of sorts. “What do you mean, interesting?”

“If you care for her, then you ought to be willing to talk to her. You can hardly expect her to forgive you, if you keep pushing her away and not asking her how she feels.”

“Since when are _you_ any sort of expert on women?”

Alphinaud laughed at that, though it was a strained sound. “I do not claim expertise. It is merely logic. Approach the question as if she were a friend. You proffered forgiveness to Ser Aymeric readily enough, did you not?”

“Because he did what he had to do.”

“You had not even that much choice in what happened between Nidhogg and Nightbird,” Alphinaud pointed out, still calm. “Think you that her spirit is less generous than your own?”

“You think yourself clever, but you do not understand.”

“Aye.”

Estinien stared at the younger man. The simple agreement took him by surprise.

“Aye,” Alphinaud repeated. “I do _not_ understand. I cannot even imagine the feelings with which you must grapple. But Estinien, as your friend – and I do hope you still count me among your friends – I can plainly see that you feel strongly for Nightbird.” The scholar's ears turned a touch pink. “And though she might not say it in so many words, she feels just as strongly for you.”

“She is a fool, then.”

“And so are you.” Alphinaud stood up; all patience evaporated from him. He set his hands on his hips for a moment, and his voice turned hard. “For _she_ was willing to die to save you, and yet _you_ cannot even do her the courtesy of thanking her.”

The scholar went to the door. “I am going to refresh myself,” he said over his shoulder. “I shall return soon.”

Estinien stared after him, even once the door shut again.

He thought he had imagined her presence, there in the dark, trapped within Nidhogg's aether. Dreamed her into being, desperate for succor.

... _she was willing to die for me?_

Nightbird had forced herself to join Lord Edmont's table for supper. But once there, she was glad that she had done so. The company and the talk lightened her mood considerably.

The same could not be said for Alphinaud.

“She didn't say where she was going, or how long she would be gone?”

Edmont took another sip of his coffee, and Nightbird knew he was hiding a smile. “You know as well as any of us, Alphinaud, how strong willed Berylla can be. She seemed quite calm, so whatever task she is pursuing, it is surely nothing terribly dangerous.”

The scholar frowned deeply. “I mislike this,” he muttered.

Nightbird reached out, and patted his arm lightly. “I am certain that Berylla is well able to look after herself. It is not as if she needs someone at her side at all times.”

“If you had seen the way she acted during her _last_ trip to the Mists,” Alphinaud began, then shook his head. “Well, if she is in no hurry, then she likely shan't go wrecking her manacutter again.”

“Again?” Emmanellain's eyebrows went up. “This sounds like quite a fascinating story.”

“Indeed,” Edmont agreed. Alphinaud looked between the two of them, then at Artoirel and Nightbird; when he saw that both of them also had expressions of interest, he sighed a little.

Then, he gave in, and told them all about Berylla's ill-advised but rather spectacular “speed run,” ascending the mountain of Sohm Al, with the Lord Commander perched on the back of her manacutter; and how she had crashed the vehicle into the moogle village at the end of the journey.

“The moogles will likely _never_ let her visit them again, or at least not without bringing the incident up every time.” Alphinaud concluded his tale with a slight smile.

Edmont shook his head, a wry grin curving his lips; Emmanellain and Artoirel both were chuckling.

“That sounds much like the sort of madness Haurchefant might have tried, in his younger days. He was ever one for pushing the limits of his racing birds.” Edmont smiled once more. “Well. Surely it is as you say, Alphinaud. Berylla did not seem hurried at all, so it is quite likely that she is taking all due care in her travels.”

“I can only hope,” the young Elezen sighed. Then, he set aside his napkin and pushed his chair back a bit. “If I may excuse myself, I have some personal matters to attend.” His mouth quirked. “I have doubtless amassed quite a few letters to be answered, by now.”

“We will see you on the morrow, lad,” Edmont nodded, and Alphinaud stood, gave them all a brief bow, and left.

Nightbird drank the last of her own coffee and set the cup down with a little sigh.

“Are you wearied, Nightbird?”

She looked up, mildly surprised. Artoirel held her gaze, and she tilted her head. “It has been quite a momentous few days,” she answered. “But I think I shall be fully recovered very soon. Thank you for asking after me.”

“It is only what one ought to do for a cousin,” and to her further astonishment, he smiled slightly. “It has taken me some time to get used to the notion...”

Edmont laughed quietly at that, and Artoirel quirked his eyebrow at his father but did not stop speaking.

“...and I confess that I have much less time to spend on getting to know you than I might prefer. Especially with my new duties as Count.”

“I, too, shall soon have new duties,” Nightbird murmured. “I would be quite the fool to expect any of you to lavish a great deal of time on me. I deeply appreciate all that House Fortemps has done for me already.”

Edmont's attention had fixed on her. “Ah! So you did accept.”

She smiled. “Yes, lord uncle. I do not know just when Ser Aymeric will have work for me, but I did inform him today that I would take on his life-consuming project of guiding Ishgard's cultural contributions to the Alliance.”

“Oh, splendid!” Emmanellain exclaimed. “Dare I hope that this means you shall also be available for social events? Dancing, perhaps?”

Nightbird could not help but laugh at the young man's enthusiasm. “Perhaps.”


	30. Unchained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien thinks to leave Ishgard without saying goodbye.  
> Nightbird isn't having any of THAT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A portion of this was also shown in the first chapter of “Two Leggers Are Almost Interesting”  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24998311/chapters/60528448

Estinien's pack sat on the narrow bed, open, half full. The dragoon finished emptying the small dresser in the corner and stuffed items into the pack, barely paying attention to weight distribution or any other niceties. He tied the pack shut and shouldered it, and then snatched up the simple staff that Captain Whitecape had given him. All his worldly possessions fit onto his back, just the way it ought to be. He had what he needed to survive out in the forest for an indefinite length of time. He could make his escape before anyone had a mind to try and track him.

He turned towards the open door – and paused, seeing Handeloup standing in the hallway just outside. There was a piece of paper in the commander's hand.

“The Lord Commander – beg pardon, Ser Aymeric – sends word.”

Estinien's mouth had started to open, to snap that he no longer answered to the Lord Commander – but when Handeloup corrected himself, the dragoon's mouth snapped shut.

He set down his pack and held his hand out for the paper, which Handeloup passed over without speaking. In silence, Estinien read the note.

Estinien. I know you plan to leave soon. I would ask that you allow me to see you off with one last drink. We have been friends long enough for that, I trust?

The dragoon's mouth twisted, just as his feelings twisted inside him. He could practically hear the dry tone of voice, the wry twist of the lips, the spark in those blue eyes that would say “You had better do as I ask.” A streak of joy – his oldest and dearest friend yet wished to see his face. But the joy was set upon, the way a hawk is harassed by crows; pecked and battered by dark wings of doubt and self-loathing.

One drink. He could allow himself that much. One drink, to say goodbye.

“I suppose I will go to Aymeric now.”

“He left about a half a bell ago, to go home for the day,” Handeloup said helpfully.

Estinien nodded. “Thank you.” Then he grabbed his pack, and as the commander stepped back, he walked out. He ignored the weight of the commander's stare on the back of his neck.

Soon enough he was out in the brisk chill air, and without even thinking about it, he took to the rooftops. His body felt lithe, light. He was as strong as he had ever been. There was no lingering pain to speak of, no weakness in his hands or legs or back...

If only there was no weakness in his heart.

“She misses you, Estinien. Why do you persist in avoiding her?”

“And what do _you_ know of it?”

“Don't level that jealous glare at me, old friend. You know me – and Nightbird – better than that.”

The dragoon knocked back half his brandy and then cupped the glass between his palms, staring into the amber liquid as if seeking answers within it. “I can't, Aymeric. I can't...no, I _won't_ force her to look at me again. Not after she saw me...then. Not after I hurt her.”

“She told me that she wants to speak to you.” Aymeric sipped his own brandy, and watched his friend's face tighten. “She said, most emphatically, that she did not hold you responsible for the actions for which Nidhogg used your body.”

“But _I do_.” If Estinien clenched his jaw any tighter, Aymeric thought his teeth might shatter.

“Why? You did not hold it against me that I tried to kill you. Can you not extend yourself the same forgiveness?”

Estinien drank the rest of his brandy and set the glass down with exaggerated care. Aymeric wasn't fooled. The dragoon was shaking badly. The brandy hadn't even taken the edge off his state.

“I don't deserve forgiveness,” the silver haired man grated. “I'm not as I once was, Aymeric. I'm not...not...” He stopped, and put one hand over his eyes. There was an air about him that told the lord commander that his friend was nearly ready to bolt from the room.

Aymeric set down his brandy and glanced at the time. He'd never seen his friend quite this distressed. He wasn't sure, now, if he could keep Estinien here for another five minutes.

Well. There was one thing. Possibly a foolish gambit, but when had he been other than a fool, when it came to Estinien?

He got up from his chair and came around the table, to stand beside the dragoon.

“You are not the same,” he agreed quietly. “But you are not a monster. No more than ever you were.”

“I have been a monster for years, Aymeric.”

“And so you imply I have befriended a monster, then?” Aymeric made his tone scathing. “That I made love with a monster?”

Estinien's head jerked up and he stared at Aymeric, eyes wide. His cheeks were suspiciously damp. “You – but – dammit, Aymeric,” he stammered. “That's not the same...!”

Aymeric cut him off by leaning down, grabbing his chin, and planting a kiss on Estinien's mouth.

He expected a curse, or perhaps to be pushed at, even punched. Instead Estinien's hands came up and clutched at his robes, pulling him closer.

The moment Aymeric backed off a little, the other man buried his head against Aymeric's belly and his hands let loose the robe to wrap around his waist. A posture Aymeric had seen before. His friend was desperately seeking comfort.

He wasn't weeping, of course he wasn't going to _cry_ in the lord commander's arms. But Estinien quaked with the effort of holding back. He kept his cheek against Aymeric's belly, and his eyes shut, warring with himself. He shouldn't even have come here. Why had he answered Aymeric's request? He should be out in the wilds, like the beast he truly was. He didn't belong here anymore.

He didn't belong _anywhere_. He was unnatural. How could it be otherwise? He had seen the marks. The scars, yes, but as ugly as they were, they troubled him less than the other wounds.

The marks on his soul...the gouges left behind, the nightmares and the waking dreams, the moments when he came to himself and wasn't sure what he'd been doing for the last hour...

To think that perhaps Nidhogg was not truly gone terrified him to his core. He was ashamed of how he had failed to resist the wyrm's possession – and was now just as ashamed of his fear that Nidhogg was merely dormant. Might there be some piece of him, lurking and waiting?

The healers had assured him that his body and his aether were whole, untainted, that he had nothing to fear. But they weren't in his head. Only Nightbird's song had ever come close to that, and he had lost her.

His breaths were deep and shuddering, but he kept silent, and pretended that the hot tears on his cheeks were just another hallucination.

Nightbird ran down the hallway, her steps quick and quiet in the slippers she wore. She had received Ser Aymeric's note and had come _immediately_ to House Borel. She was fiercely glad for the paths she had learned in the summer. She could reach the manor in thirty minutes on the streets. With what Estinien had taught her, even though she was no dragoon, she had cut that time in half.

She paused in the sitting-room doorway, and wrestled her mind into a calmer state, pushing down the surge of instinctive jealousy she felt at seeing Aymeric embracing her lover. She was here for a very specific reason, and sex was not that reason.

She took one last breath, and then spoke.

“ _Estinien_.”

Estinien pulled away from Aymeric, scrambling to his feet. _No, she can't be here, she can't see me – gods damn him, Aymeric tricked me into coming here!_

He nearly tripped over the couch, so badly rattled that he had no grace whatsoever. But she didn't seem to notice.

Nightbird's eyes fixed on him and she came at him – almost as if she would lunge for his throat. He backed away, trying to shift sideways and make good his escape, but she matched him. Aymeric put himself in the doorway – and then she was on him.

She was inches shorter than he, and yet when her delicate hands latched onto his doublet, he had no doubt whatsoever that she could pick him up handily and _throw_ him. He wondered if she would do just that. She looked furious.

Abruptly he _wanted_ her to throw him. To hit him, to yell at him, to tell him exactly how awful he was. He surely must deserve it.

She stared up into his face. Once, he would have met her stare with one of his own, would have stood tall against her and given her a fight.

He was no longer that man. He was a broken, piteous creature, barely human at all.

Nightbird's grip tightened on the tan doublet and she yanked Estinien down to her eye level.

“You wouldn't speak to me in the infirmary,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “You forced me to beg Aymeric to get in touch with you. Even now, you try to run for me. I know you've taken a lot of blows to the head, Estinien, but are you really _that much of a friggin' idiot?_ ”

She growled the last words and then paused, taking a deep, deep breath. Her voice turned musical – not in the way she did it when they were alone together. The way she did it on the battlefield.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose as her eyes _changed_.

“You _are_ going to hear me out. You're going to listen to me. You're going to by the gods believe me, Wyrmblood.”

The power hit him, like flood-waters rising, pulling him under before he understood what was happening. He sank to his knees and his eyes stayed fixed on hers. She had sung to him, she had crooned and hummed, but only one other time had he felt her magic touch him. Some part of him was able to be astonished – how could she be _doing_ that, using abilities from white magic alongside song magic? Impossible!

But most of him was dragged under and swallowed up in the hypnotic lilt of her voice, the power of her song.

There were no lyrics to this song; its message went beyond mere words.

She sang to his soul with her own. She sang to him of all that he had been, and somehow showed him how much he had _not_ lost, could never lose. His skills; his past; the respect of his dragoons and of many of the Temple Knights besides; his friends.

She wove melodies of memory all around his heart, and like bandages they bound him up. She didn't take away one speck of his pain or his fear. But she put in place the things that would let him heal on his own.

Through it all she wound around and around him comfort, warmth, reminders of his own humanity in the form of tiny memories – things she couldn't possibly have seen, but somehow her magic sought them out.

He felt her coming closer to the worst of it and he quailed once more, tried to hide. A noise came from him, wholly unmusical, and she wrapped her arms around him and set her mouth on his and still somehow her song went on.

As she had bared his soul, now she opened her own soul to him.

Tears leaped from his eyes. He had hurt her, so badly. It didn't matter that Nidhogg had been in command of his limbs, his lips. It had been his body that had done those awful things. He was stained by that shame, nothing could take back what he had inflicted on her.

Nightbird did not try to deny it. And yet she did not curse him as she ought.

She showered him in forgiveness, bathed him in mercy and grace. He would never have asked; he did not have the courage even to speak of it.

For one instant, it as was if Halone Herself stood in the very room with them, behind Nightbird, Her great hand held over him in absolution.

Aymeric watched carefully. He didn't understand what he was seeing, and he had a feeling he wasn't hearing everything Nightbird was saying, but that didn't matter. So long as Estinien did not leave this room until it was safer. Aymeric was under no illusions about the dragoon's sanity. He was only glad that his friend had not yet done himself harm. He wasn't about to allow him out of his sight again until he was certain that danger was past.

The room grew dim as twilight drew its veil across the city. Even the sound of Nightbird's humming faded away, the two of them locked in tableau – the dragoon on his knees, arms at his sides, the bard with her arms wrapped around Estinien's shoulders, cradling his head against her breast.

Abruptly, Estinien broke down, weeping in Nightbird's arms as he had not wept against Aymeric. He wept like a traumatized little boy, like a man who had lost everything. Nightbird held him, and murmured to him. Aymeric did not need to understand her words to know what she was saying.

He didn't wipe the water away from his eyes, but he also did not leave. Not yet.

The storm of tears was brief, but its intensity left Estinien feeling like a wrung out rag. He managed to get to his feet, and tottered for an instant before Nightbird's shoulder was against him.

Aymeric came to them, then, and deftly set himself on the other side of the dragoon. His greater height was more helpful in keeping Estinien upright, and Nightbird flashed the lord commander a small smile.

“He needs to rest,” she told Aymeric. “Both of us do, honestly. Where...”

“You may both use the second guest room,” Aymeric answered instantly.

Estinien moved without grace, almost as if drunk, but Aymeric had no trouble guiding his friend out of the sitting-room, up the stairs, and to the last doorway on the right.

Once inside the small bedroom, he maneuvered the weary dragoon over to sit on the bed, and straightened.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“No, thank you.” Nightbird's smile was tired, but genuine.

The raven haired lord nodded once, and then left them alone. The door shut with a mere whisper of sound.

Estinien looked at Nightbird. With him seated this way, they were of a height. Her eyes met his, steady – clear – and he reached up to touch her cheek.

“I was sure you must hate me, little bird.”

“I know.” She pressed her cheek into his palm. “Let us rest, my dragoon.”

She moved slowly as she helped him undress, shedding her own clothing along the way. Gently she lay him back on the bed, arranging the bedclothes so that they were covered from the waist down.

They lay together, touching, hands gentle. Comfort, rather than lust, drifted between them – offered, accepted, shared.

Nightbird's hands traced his scars, learning them without flinching. She pressed her lips to the large scar on his chest. Her breath was warm across his skin as she spoke.

“I must explain something to you, Estinien.”

His hands were in her hair. “What?” His belly trembled just a little at the slight tension in her tone.

“Do you remember how we made love, before you left with Berylla to battle Nidhogg at the Aery?”

His laugh was mostly breath. “Yes.” It was an understatement, but he had not the words to tell her how the experience had seared itself into his mind.

“I – did something, then, that was...” She sighed. “Morally speaking, it was wrong. I thought I had a good reason for it, but...it was still...”

“What are you talking about?”

“Soul bonds.”

His hands drifted from her hair to her shoulders. “Those don't exist except in silly love ballads.”

“Oh, they exist. They are quite strongly advised against, and they are dangerous. But they are very real.”

“And you...what, you made such a bond with me?”

“An incomplete one. It is...considered by most to be a form of coercive binding.”

“Why would you want such a bond, Nightbird?”

She hid her face from him, and for a moment she didn't answer.

“I was afraid for you,” she murmured at last. “I wanted...I wanted to be with you, to fight beside you, but I could not. So I tried for something that I thought would be the next best thing.” She raised her eyes to his. “I did not ask you about it, and for that I am very sorry.”

“Had you asked me,” he answered, his voice slow and thoughtful. “Had you asked, I would have said yes.”

Her hands were on his arms now. He could feel her trembling.

“I love you, Estinien.”

“Even now?”

“Now, and always.” She lifted one hand to trace his cheekbone with her fingertips. “I will not ask you to complete the soul bond, however. Not...not now.” Her fingers trailed down to the scars on his chest. “You have been bound so very long,” she murmured. “To vengeance, to duty. Those shackles are gone now. I won't replace them. Not even for love.”

Estinien's eyes glistened, and his voice was thick. “Will you hold me if I ask it of you?”

“I have not the right.” She kissed his chest again. “Wander as you will, Estinien. Do as you must. I want you at my side...” She leaned up and pressed her lips to his. “But I am content to let you dictate the terms of when and how you might spend time with me.”

“Nightbird...” He tugged her close, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly. “I have loved you...too long. I feared it. Feared being hurt.”

His face was buried in her neck, muffling his voice. But she had no trouble understanding his words. “I feared that I might hurt you, by getting myself killed if nothing else.”

“Sh, sh,” she soothed him. “I believe we've been over that enough for one night.”

He held her and swallowed hard. He did not deserve such a blessing. Did not deserve her, or her love. But he could not let her go. And though he trembled as he admitted all his feelings to her, the way she simply held him was as much of a balm to his spirit as the magic she had worked on him downstairs.

Night had fallen outside, but for the first time in days, Estinien no longer felt trapped in the dark. He would never be the same man he had been.

But knowing that Nightbird still loved him – enough to still wish a soul bond with him, even – made that alteration easier to contemplate, now.

“I cannot stay here in Ishgard.”

She stroked her hands across his back. “Can you not take the time to say your good-byes properly? I know Alphinaud at least would be somewhat hurt if you simply vanished.”

“The boy has plenty of other concerns to occupy his mind. I do not doubt he was grateful to be released from being my nanny.”

“You are not that much of an ass, Estinien.” She leaned back just a touch, so that she could stroke his hair away from his face. Instead of pursuing the debate, she asked a different question. “Where were you planning to go?”

“Dravania, first. Then...to Azys Lla.” He looked down. “I never had the opportunity to properly honor Ysayle's sacrifice.”

Nightbird remembered what Alphinaud had told her – how the heretic leader had once more summoned up Shiva, to do battle with a Garlean dreadnaught. How she had very nearly won that fight, how her efforts had bought the Warrior of Light the time needed to make a safe landing. How she had been shot down...

“Would you object to company?”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“I would understand if you would rather make this journey alone,” she stroked his hair again. “But if you would allow, I would go with you. After all,” she gave him a small, sly smile, “I have much to thank Ysayle for. It would be good to honor her in some small way.”

“Thank her for what?”

“Why, for saving your hide, of course.” Nightbird's eyes twinkled. “Without her intervention, you would have tried to take on the Garleans yourself.”

He scowled, but only because she was right.

“Truly, if you need to be alone...”

“You may come with me. I am in no hurry.”

She tapped the end of his nose and growled in her throat. “I can keep pace with you, lover. Do not think to coddle me.”

Something about the way she said that made him laugh, a rusty sounding laugh to be sure – but the first such he had uttered since awakening from his coma.

He shifted his limbs until he had her nestled against his chest, with her head on his bicep, and let himself fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I managed an update!! Thank you for your patience in waiting for this.


	31. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Nightbird and Estinien can speak about their future - or at least, the near future...

Nightbird woke, to see sun streaming in through the windows. Realizing she was alone in the bed, she sat up with a small gasp.

“Relax, little bird.” Estinien's voice rippled with amusement. “Did you think I would leave without you?”

“Given how you were acting yesterday...” But her mouth curved in a smile. “No.”

Estinien sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing trousers and he had on his shirt, but had not yet buttoned it. The sunlight passed through the pale cloth and touched his skin, making both seem to glow a little, as he reached out to stroke her cheek with his thumb.

Nightbird caught his wrist, and pressed her lips to the inside of it, then placed another soft kiss in his palm, before curling his fingers closed. Estinien pulled his hand back, and without breaking eye contact with her, he pressed his closed fist to his chest, as if tucking away the invisible kiss in his palm.

The dragoon's smile was unlike any he had ever shown her – a shy smile, that stretched into a brief flash of joy as she smiled back.

Then, he leaned forward, and set his mouth across hers.

As their lips touched, Nightbird felt Estinien's aether glide across hers.

Their movements were slow, cautious – each of them paying exquisite attention to the other's reactions, on the physical and aetherial levels. The brush of a hand against skin – a breath taken, a whisper of assent. Touching, tasting, as if they had never known each other before.

The sunlight dazzled her eyes as he lay Nightbird on her back, and she closed them with a small sigh. He leaned down to skim his lips over her collarbone, and she buried her fingers in silver hair and arched into him.

Estinien, for his own part, could not take his eyes off of her. He glanced constantly back up at her face, as he kissed a path from her collarbone to her nipple. The way her fingers tightened in his hair, the little trill of pleasure she made, told him that she was enjoying his touch. He felt even more than that through the contact of their aether, and it made his whole body blaze with desire.

He had never had occasion to use his aether, in this way. He had heard about it, from listening to old astrologians and overhearing some of the discussions between other practitioners of magic. He knew well his capabilities as a dragoon: he manipulated his personal aether to accomplish some of the attacks for which his sort of knight was known. He knew himself to be without equal among any of the other knights dragoon – and knew it as fact, not as arrogance. But this sort of aether manipulation was new to him, and so he moved with care.

Nightbird could feel how tautly her beloved held himself in check, in the trembling of his hands and the shivers that went through his aether now and again. Reaching for him, she soothed without words, fingers gently kneading his scalp and aether gently twining with his.

His lips closed around her nipple, and she moaned very softly. How she had missed him.

Estinien's hand drifted down her belly as he shifted his attentions to her other nipple. When his fingertips caressed the curls hiding at the apex of her thighs, he felt the tremor in her aether, and paused.

“Don't stop,” Nightbird whispered.

He came back up to kiss her. “Are you certain?”

Her eyes opened, and she looked up at him with such tenderness that he felt tears stinging his own eyes. “I am very certain. Touch me, Estinien. Please.”

He groaned softly, and lowered himself to do as she asked.

Her tail lashed as he pushed the blankets out of the way and knelt between her legs. She watched him, the sun gilding her ebony skin, making her eyes seem to glow.

The sound she made as he slipped two fingers against her sex was indescribably sweet to his ears. His mouth watered as he lowered his head.

Her hips snapped upwards, bucking, and he placed his arm across her to pin her down as he began to lightly drag his tongue across her labia. She keened when he located her clitoris, and then as he began to suckle at that delectable pearl, she sang for him. Her aether shuddered even as her body did, and he groaned again at the way her pleasure plucked at his own nerves, echoed along his bones.

But when he slid a third finger inside of her, she stiffened, and cried out.

“No...no, stop!”

He withdrew from her instantly, and came back up to lie beside her. He could feel the terror in her aether, and he did not have to ask why.

When she burrowed against him, weeping, hot tears fell from his eyes too.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“N-n-no it...it isn't you...I didn't think it would be this way.”

“I know. I know, little bird. Sh, sh, sh.”

Her aether swirled around him, agitated. She took a deep breath. “I still want...”

He kissed her forehead. “There is no hurry.”

“Let me touch you...please?”

His body had not lost interest in the slightest, and his cock twitched hard at the way she shifted against him.

“Of course you can touch me,” he answered, “but is this truly what you want – ”

She kissed him, a hard, insistent kiss. “I cannot help what my body remembers, but I know that I want you, Estinien.” Her eyes gleamed in the light. “I love you.”

She gave him no further chance to debate, for the next thing he knew, her hands were on his trousers and then she had freed his cock.

He shut his eyes and bit his lip as she stroked him, but when her tongue laved the head of his cock, he could not hold in a loud, needy groan. He felt nearly dizzy with the sheer power of the lust raging through him. “Nightbird...please, I... _Fury!_ ”

She had taken his length into her mouth, and he had all he could do not to clutch at her head and immediately begin thrusting against her. As it was, his fingers knotted in the bedclothes and his hips lifted off the bed for an instant. With their aether tangling together, the sensations were even more intense than they had been on that warm summer night – the second night ever he spent in bed with this amazing woman.

Nightbird felt his memory, and her own memories of that evening joined his, an arpeggio of joy. She had known, even then, that she had cared for him – she simply had not yet put it into words for herself.

Estinien's aether coiled tight around her for an instant, as if he could not help but clutch at her. She bobbed her head on his cock, licking and sucking almost frantically. She needed him. She was starving for him. She would find a way to bring the two of them pleasure – even if her traitorous body remained uncooperative.

She wove her aether through his and touched the place where the partial soul bond rested, something between a seed and a scar. Estinien cried out. “Nightbird!”

His pleasure flooded into her mind, her body, and she moaned once – and then he was coming, and she could not keep him in her mouth, writhing in the throes of an answering climax.

She recovered first, and staggered out of the bed to fetch a cloth and dampen it with water from the ewer. She cleaned herself first, as best she could, and then rinsed the cloth before bringing it over to the bed.

Estinien lay as if stricken, limbs askew with one leg off the bed entirely, eyes closed, chest heaving.

Nightbird touched his arm with her hand, and he opened his eyes to look at her.

“My little bird,” he murmured. Then he smiled, and her heart felt as if it might burst.

He took the cloth from her, and cleaned himself, then got up and put the cloth aside before taking her in his arms.

She snuggled into him, soaking in all she could of his scent, his presence.

“When did you want to depart?” she asked him.

“As I said, I am in no hurry,” he chuckled, “and I believe we both could use a real bath, and a real meal, before we prepare to leave.”

“A sound plan,” she nodded, her cheek rubbing against his bare skin.

“Nightbird...” He pulled back, and sat on the edge of the bed, tugging her to him, so that he was just a bit under her eye level. “I...I felt – but I want you to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About where we go from here.”

She knew he did not mean their itinerary. She took a long breath, and he stroked her cheek with his thumb.

“I told you last night, my love. Do as you must – wander as you will. I will be here when you return.”

“You are truly willing to tolerate living apart in such a way?”

She stroked her aether against the soul bond, and smiled very gently. “I am always with you, Estinien. Where our bodies are is irrelevant, for me.” She leaned in and kissed him, then tugged him to her, so that his cheek was pillowed on her breasts. “I am not a needy woman.”

Estinien closed his eyes, and breathed in her scent – she wore no perfume, today, but the unique fragrance of her was intoxicating all on its own.

He still felt that his soul had become an ugly and twisted thing – more mangled than ever, after surviving Nidhogg's torment.

And yet, now, he did not flinch at the thought of her knowing that. He would let her see into his heart – to the bottom of his soul, if she asked it of him. Fury, how she had changed him.

He let her go, let her step back. “Shall we get cleaned up?” he asked her in a light tone. “Or would you rather have food first?”

She smiled. “Bath, then food.”

Plain linen robes hung on pegs near the door; they each donned one, and Estinien led the way to the bathing chamber. He knew well that Aymeric had long since left the house, and the staff were just as familiar with Estinien as he was with them. There was no need to hunt for Jarilant to make requests. The dragoon had never been a picky eater to begin with, and every time he had guested here, he had made it plain that he was more than content to eat whatever Milinne cared to give him. There would be some sort of food on offer, when they came downstairs.

Clean, and dressed, and fed on simple bread and milk, they returned to the guest room.

“I am already packed,” Estinien began, “but I confess I ought to go through and pack correctly. I was somewhat hasty, yesterday.”

Nightbird hummed, a thoughtful sound. “I can be ready in an hour, I think. I really only need long enough to speak with lord-uncle, and perhaps Alphinaud.”

“Lord-uncle, is it now?” Estinien's eyebrows lifted, amused to see the faint darkening of her cheeks.

Nightbird shrugged, her ears performing that odd, complicated semaphore that he still wasn't quite sure how to interpret.

“He insisted. It is mostly meaningless – ”

“Not if it includes things like bodyguards during your performances.”

She blinked at him, and spoke slowly. “Why are you both still so worried about Tibernus de Dzemael? He is a wet eared puppy, a nuisance and nothing more.”

“He is a nasty minded and petty lordling,” Estinien answered, “and he was a close associate of Charibert's.”

Her lip curled, understanding the implications.

“Little bird, truly, I wouldn't put it past him to try something underhanded to get at you.”

She shook her head. “I do not doubt he fantasizes about such things, but he is too incompetent to represent any real threat.”

Estinien opened his mouth, and Nightbird lifted her hand, palm outward. “I will, however, promise you the same thing I promised the Count. I shall not wander about the city unguarded, at least not while I am – as he put it – officially myself. And when I am taking care of tasks that require me to be alone, I will be certain to go armed.”

He stroked her hair. “Then that shall be enough for me. Go on and do whatever you need to do. I will wait for you.”

She nodded, and leaned up to kiss his cheek before walking out of the room.

The first thing Nightbird did when she returned to the manor was to send off a pair of messages – a brief one to Alphinaud, asking him to come speak to her, and a longer missive to inform Lord Edmont about her travel plans. Ser Aymeric likely already knew of the dragoon's plans – or if not, Estinien would leave the Lord Commander a note of his own.

It did not take long for Nightbird to pack – she never left her things scattered about, and most of her adventuring gear remained with her pack. Nonetheless, she checked over everything with meticulous care. She renewed her medicines, and added the valerian tincture Alphinaud had made. She did not know whether she would have nightmares – but it did not hurt to be prepared.

She had just finished sealing up her medicine case when there was a tap on her door.

Nightbird went to the door and opened it, and then let Alphinaud in with a smile. “I am glad you were able to find time to come speak to me.”

“Correspondence can wait.” He set one hand on her shoulder, his blue eyes holding a glimmer of worry. “Are you...?”

“I am fine. Estinien and I have – reached a compromise of sorts. He wishes to undertake a short journey, and I am going with him.”

“And after that?”

“After that, I will return to Ishgard. What Estinien will do – that is up to him.” She shrugged a little, and patted the scholar's hand. “He needs some time, I suspect, to sort himself out. A little peace and quiet, a little space to think. I feel certain he too will return to the city, when he is ready.”

Alphinaud let his hand fall away, and nodded. He swiped at his bangs, and made a small scoffing sound. “Of course Estinien could not tell anyone this in a straightforward manner.”

“It is his way.” Nightbird smiled.

At that, Alphinaud smiled too. “Then, I shall wish you safe travels, Nightbird.”

On impulse, she reached out and gave the young man a small hug. “Thank you. I will see you again soon.”

He was stiff with surprise for only a second before he returned her embrace. The very tips of his ears were pink, but his smile was wider than it had been. He kept that smile, as he turned and left.

Nightbird went back to her packing.

She had come to Ishgard ready to do a job and move on. She had not expected to stay long here – a year, perhaps two, and no more. She had certainly not expected to make friends – even less so had she thought to make the deep connections she now treasured. Nothing could have prepared her for the whirlwind that had swept across her life – and she had not been in the center of the storm as Alphinaud and Berylla had been. Their lives had been turned upside down completely.

And yet – here they were. Staunch allies of Ishgard – befriended by half the High Houses at least – and they had helped end a thousand-year war. Even though the Scions had not yet truly returned... She could not help but smile. They had ushered in a new dawn for Ishgard, at the least. Minfilia would be proud of them.

Berylla was gone for now, but Marius had said that she would return. Whatever else she might think of the cryptic minstrel, Nightbird trusted his word. She wondered how Berylla would react when finally the tall warrior understood who and what Nightbird was.

She packed her harp, and her thoughts turned to Felina, and to Pale. Her dearest friends...she had thought them lost to her, truly. To have them back in her life – even if they yet must remain somewhat distant...if she had not already been a believer in miracles, that alone would have persuaded her.

She tied her pack shut, checked over her personal armor and gear one final time, and then stepped out into the hallway. She locked her door, and tucked the key into a top pouch on her pack before shouldering it.

Without further delay, she strode out of Fortemps Manor and made her way back to her beloved.

It was time to go.


	32. Benedictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien has a few words to say.

“You have been through these lands, have you not?”

“I have,” Nightbird nodded. The two of them were flying over the Dravanian lands. She had not questioned Estinien about their destination, merely summoned up her personal mount and followed him without comment. He had remained silent throughout their flight from the city, through the frozen western highlands, and only spoke now as they were coming near Sohm Al.

“I have not been here since our little jaunt to treat with Hraesvelgr,” Estinien told her.

“I see. Things have changed, somewhat, I believe.” She gestured vaguely behind them. “The Vath have become quite the self-sufficient community.”

“I am more interested to know what changes have come among the dragons.”

“Of course.”

They were over Anyx Trine, now. Estinien's bird spiraled down, onto one of the platforms midway up the main tower. He dismounted, not waiting for Nightbird, and strode inside.

By the time she had also landed and followed him in, he had been stopped by a young, blue-scaled dragon, whose wings were spread wide as its mouth gaped open in a hiss.

The tension in Estinien's back told her how much effort it was taking him not to answer that challenge in the way he always had before. Hatred of dragon-kind had been instilled in him from birth, and had only been sharpened by the losses and the training he had endured. But he stood still and silent, hands at his sides, unarmed and unarmored.

The youngling saw Nightbird, and its hiss subsided, though it yet maintained its defensive posture. If it had been Miqote like herself, its ears might have pricked forward. “Oh. It is thee. But why hast thou come here?” Its voice was much like that of an adolescent, and its lack of tact told her that this particular youngster had likely made its transition quite recently.

“I would speak with your brood-sister Vidofnir,” she told the creature. Its head rose, eyes widening a touch, its voice perturbed.

“She is not here – ”

An older dragon arrived, and now buffeted the young one with a red-scaled wing, making it stand down and cower slightly.

“What art thou doing! Thy duty is to guard and announce, not chatter freely about our kin!”

“But he's That One!” yelped the youngster.

This exclamation earned a nip from the elder, and the blue dragon scuttled to press its shoulder to the wall, putting its nearer wing over its head.

The older, red dragon turned to face the two of them. “Pardon my sibling's foolishness. He is young, and stupid.”

There was a wordless whine of protest from the sibling at this, but nothing more.

Estinien's hands loosened from the fists they had been in, and he let out a long slow breath. “Your sibling is not wholly incorrect, I would surmise. I am – or rather, I was – the Azure Dragoon.” He tipped his head up to meet the dragon's eyes. “I have caused much death among your people. I imagine for a youngster, I might even be frightening.”

The dragon snorted. “Dost thou come here to make amends, then?”

Estinien shook his head. “I know well that there is naught that I can do that would ever mend the things I have done. I am unforgivable,” Nightbird saw his eye flicker to her for an instant, “for you and yours. Nay. I come to simply to place my vow before you: I shall not spill the blood of the brood of Hraesvelgr, ever again.”

“What dost thou hope to gain from such a vow?” The dragon asked, eyes narrowing.

“I seek the blessing – or curse – of continued life,” Estinien answered honestly. “Death was ever a close companion of mine, and long I thought to simply let it take me. Most especially after...what I endured at Nidhogg's talons.” He swallowed hard and was silent for a moment. “I would very much expect that you and yours would see me ripped limb from limb for all the wrongs committed against you by mine own hand. And if that be your wish, and my vow does not move you, I will bend to my fate.”

Nightbird's sharp intake of breath did not make him look at her a second time. She put her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes, forcing herself to be still. She had not come with him only to witness his death...had she?

The silence dragged out for a time. When the dragon spoke again, she opened her eyes.

“Thy name will ever be blackened among us,” it told the dragoon slowly. “But thy kind have made true effort to begin reconciliation. I myself hath not the authority to make such a decision. Vidofnir would...”

“But she is not here,” Estinien nodded.

“Go to the Mists,” the dragon told him. “Mine brood-father may yet be willing to speak with mortals one more time.”

“He is recovered from the battle?” Nightbird asked.

The dragon turned its head to fix her with one eye, a bird-like posture. “Thou wouldst ask after his health, as if great Hraesvelgr wert merely some mortal nobleman?”

“I was there,” she answered, not flinching from the subtle bite in the dragon's tone. “I saw what transpired, and Hraesvelgr's actions that day did save my own life. I have,” her mouth twitched, “something of an interest in knowing at least whether he is healing from his injuries.”

The dragon blinked twice and then made a motion with its wings – she got the impression it was the draconic version of a shrug. “Ask him with thine own mouth, then.”

It turned its attention back to Estinien. “Thou cannot stay here, but I shall grant thee what small protection I may. The path up the mountain is calmer than before, but there are yet a few of mine cousins who haunt the track, hoping for unwary travelers to torment.”

“I thank you for this courtesy,” Estinien said gravely. He looked over at the younger dragon, whose wing no longer covered his face. “And I applaud your courage,” he told him. “Your siblings are well guarded by you.”

He turned then, and walked out. Nightbird looked at the two dragons for an instant, before turning to follow him. There was a feeling in the air that many ears had heard every word that had just been exchanged...and a feeling that the dragons were all too eager to see the back of these unexpected visitors.

They mounted up, and took off.

They reached the Churning Mists just as the sun was setting.

Estinien eyed the moogle village, and snorted once before turning his bird away towards the west. “Come,” he called over his shoulder. “I know a quieter place to rest.”

He led them into the ruins and stopped at a spot where a neatly circular patch of luxuriantly green grass was surrounded by several pillars – one or two of which were still standing. Nightbird's chocobo was more than happy to land on the lush bit of lawn, making a relieved “kweh” as her feet touched the ground. She was not an Ishgardian beast, and she had spent most of the last few months simply kicking up her heels in a paddock. This trip had taken a lot out of her.

“Good girl,” Nightbird soothed the golden feathers around her cere, and dug out a generous pile of greens for the bird's dinner.

Estinien's bird was whistling happily as he buried his beak into his own food. Nightbird smiled and left the two of them to eat in peace.

She walked towards the dragoon, who was now kneeling near a large block of stone. As she approached she could see blackened marks – this place had been used as a camp before.

She put two and two together. “This is where you camped with Alphinaud and Iceheart.”

“Yes.”

The clipped way he answered told her all she needed to know. She left him to his task, and stepped outside the ring of fallen pillars to grab a little fuel for their evening fire. It was _cold_ up here.

She had an armful of decent branches when she heard the hissing.

She looked to the side, and saw the amphithere that had stealthily come up on her. Its oil-black wings were slightly spread and its rather beady eyes were fixed on her as it hissed a second time. Its tongue extended and retracted, snake-like, and it tensed, ready to pounce.

Nightbird's mind raced. The wood in her arms clattered to the ground as she lifted her hands to cast a spell of shielding.

There was a scream as of torn metal, and then Estinien was standing over the creature, his lance in its skull. Its wings flailed, and the front pair of wing-claws scrabbled at the steel piercing its head for an instant. Then the amphithere collapsed with a grisly death-rattle. Its wing-claws were over its eyes, reminding Nightbird forcefully of the young, frightened dragon back in Anyx Trine.

She shuddered and let her aether go.

Estinien did not look at her. He wrenched his lance free with a snarl, and stalked past her to return to the campfire.

Silently, she bent and gathered up the branches she had dropped, and followed him.

Neither of them spoke, as they built the fire up and started a little pot of water for tea. Nightbird's camp cooking was adequate, and she was able to put together a rather plain stew in a larger pot. While she did so, Estinien worked on cleaning his lance.

But at last there was nothing more to do, and he set the weapon aside and looked at her.

She wondered if he would lecture her about dropping her guard, or make some wry or barbed comment about having to save her again.

Instead, he said, “It was one of Nidhogg's.”

She blinked at him. “How do you know?”

“I knew its name.” There was such a haunted look in his eyes as he spoke, that Nightbird could not help herself. She went to him, kneeling beside him with her hand on his shoulder.

“The wyrm left...traces of himself,” Estinien managed.

“I know. I saw.” She stroked his shoulder.

“It's why they aren't attacking,” he murmured. “They can smell him on me, and they think – they think I'm – ” He stopped speaking. His jaw muscles jumped and he was swallowing, convulsively, as if he might vomit. He crossed his arms.

Nightbird put her arm around him. “It is good to know you did not break your promise to Hraesvelgr's brood ”

“You don't understand.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Nidhogg was willing to kill his own offspring if they displeased him... and I knew its name... knew it had been my child.”

“Not yours. Nidhogg's child.”

“I was one with the wyrm, little bird.” Estinien's eyes seemed to look into something beyond the world. “He imprisoned me inside of him, he saturated my bones...” His breaths came quicker, his pupils dilated, and his fingers started to dig into his upper arms.

Nightbird knelt in front of him and took his face in her hands. “Look at me, Estinien.” She stroked his cheekbones with her thumbs. He did not respond immediately, and she tried again, putting a hint of power behind her words this time. _“Look at me.”_

His eyes fixed on hers, and she sent a trickle of aether into him, just enough to reinforce what she told him.

“Nidhogg is gone, my love. He is not here, only his shadow, and it will fade. It will. You are yet the man I love, you are still yourself. Believe me, if you cannot believe your own mind right now.”

Estinien's breath was ragged, and with a tiny sound he put his arms around her and held on tightly. She felt him shaking, felt the warmth of tears soaking into her tunic, and she buried her fingers in his hair and held him close. She hummed to him, a lullaby, easing energy into him, soothing.

“I will never be the same again,” he rasped.

“No, you will not. But I still love you, and I will always love you.”

He held her and did not speak for a long time.

Night had fallen. They had managed to eat, and now lay wrapped in blankets, limbs tangled together.

“The stars are so bright here,” Nightbird murmured. “Brighter even than over the sea...”

“I have never been to the sea,” Estinien replied, his voice thoughtful and sleepy. “I have never been much farther south than Gridania.” He snorted. “No dragons there.”

“True enough,” she smiled, and nuzzled into his neck. “Perhaps you will have the chance to travel for curiosity, for a change.”

“Perhaps. Shall I bring you with me?”

She smiled. “Perhaps.”

She felt his lips press against her head, and leaned into him a little closer. Weariness washed over her, and she let sleep tug her down.

Holding her, Estinien's eyes remained open. He could feel the presence of dragons around them. None of them were close enough to attack, but there was a definite sense that they were congregating just out of sight. He could swear he heard them whispering to each other.

He contemplated what he was to attempt on the morrow. Would Hraesvelgr deign to speak to him, after all? Would the great white dragon simply ignore him? Would he, perchance, summon up the survivors of Nidhogg's brood and let them take on the task of murdering one retired dragoon?

Or would he, like Nightbird, show Estinien mercy? Even if only a fragment of forgiveness was possible...

He kept watch into the night, until at last his eyes drifted shut and he worried no more.

They were awakened at dawn by the sound of screeching dragons.

Estinien leaped up from the bedroll, tearing the cloth as he struggled to get his hands on his lance, and took up a defensive stance, eyes darting all around as he tried to locate the creatures that were surely about to descend on them.

Nightbird was on her feet only a handful of seconds later, power swirling around her as she brandished her staff. “What on earth...?”

A moment later they both saw wings and heard further sounds of combat. Cautiously they moved, together. They walked almost crabwise, shoulders nearly touching, until they reached the edge of the circle of toppled pillars. Once there, Nightbird's jaw dropped in amazement.

A dozen or so dragons – none of them very large – were brawling among the sere weeds and fallen masonry. Some were pale, the light glinting off scales like opals and moonstone and polished marble: clearly Hraesvelgr's get . But more of them were the dark, muddied colors of Nidhogg's brood. In the swirl of wings and claws and gnashing teeth, it was hard to tell what exactly was going on, except that the pale beasts were much closer to their camp.

Estinien's eyes raked across the scene, and he snarled wordlessly. Then he turned his head to Nightbird just long enough to bark at her, “Help the white ones!”

He leaped straight up and then landed among the chaos, scattering some of the darker dragons immediately. The whole tangle opened up, and the screeching died down for a moment as the combatants reoriented.

Nightbird rushed into the lull, and threw out her hand, fingers spread wide, sending a flaring pulse of healing aether out to each of the pale dragons. They flapped towards her, clumping up just in front of her then wheeling to face the rest.

About half the others were engaged with Estinien's lance, dodging and screaming and trying to get at the dragoon with wing-claws or teeth or tail-tips. He moved among them as if they were phantoms, his face set in a ferocious scowl as his lance whirled and laid into his opponents.

But that left the other half, who flung themselves upon the white dragons.

Now that they were so close to her, Nightbird could see that all five of the pale ones were quite young indeed – mere toddlers, by dragon reckoning, younger even than the unfortunate guard-dragon from yesterday. The biggest of them was only up to her waist. But they were no less fierce for their diminutive size and they were nimbler than their cousins, evading clashing jaws with aerobatics to make even a dragoon jealous.

Nightbird swung her staff and whacked one dragon on the nose, surprising it and allowing the small dragonet it had been about to bite to flap away. She summoned up her stunning spell, and cast it forth, causing the two smallest of the dark dragons to flop to the ground as their wings abruptly stopped working. Then she wove another healing incantation, renewing the vigor of her five allies.

Her heart pounded, her blood sang, but she could feel the toll on her aether. She was not yet fully recovered... She bit her lip and forced herself to focus on the fight.

Meanwhile Estinien had taken down three of the five that had assaulted him. He executed an incredible back-flip that sent him soaring over the heads of the remaining foes and put him directly behind the largest of the ones attacking the youngsters. His lance whistled through the air as he struck at the place where the beast's neck met its shoulders.

But before his blow could land, the amphithere had lunged forward, and its jaws snapped closed on its target.

The little one screamed in agony. Nightbird's spell slammed into the amphithere at the same moment that Estinien's lance impacted its back. Its jaws popped open and Nightbird gestured, her spell of rescue yanking the small form to lie at her feet.

Estinien roared.

The darker dragons fell back, their screeches of rage giving way to cries of fear, but Estinien did not allow them to escape his wrath. He moved with inhuman speed, and blood fountained from vicious wounds as he sliced through wings and throats as if the dragons were mere training dummies. The four other pale dragons joined him, finishing any of their foes that were not instantly killed by the dragoon's flurry of enraged attacks.

Nightbird paid them no heed. She was on her knees, staff laid aside, her fingers examining the wounded dragonet. Red, red blood flowed over iridescent scales, and the little one made a tiny, gasping cry. She was certain its rib cage had been crushed, and she quailed in her heart.

She was too weak to heal such a dire wound as this! Her head was spinning already from the few seconds of combat, and her aether was dangerously depleted. Her healing spell fizzled.

She lifted the little dragon and cradled it close to her. Her tears fell across rainbow scales as she began to whisper prayers instead of spells.

Wind buffeted her, and a roar ten times louder than Estinien's hurt her ears.

She looked up to see Vidofnir standing over her, wings spread wide.

The four youngsters flapped straight for the older dragon, voices raised in agitated chatter until she rumbled at them.

Hands grasped her shoulders, and she turned her attention to Estinien.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped.

She shook her head, and only then did he seem to notice the limp little form in her arms. His mouth tightened.

Vidofnir spoke. “Move aside, dragoon.”

Estinien's mouth opened as if he would protest, but then he closed it again and rose, stepping back a few paces.

The white dragon stepped forward, her head angling down until her eye was fixed on Nightbird's lap. To outward appearances, she did nothing more than blow her breath across the dragonet and the Miqote. But Nightbird felt the aether that was borne along with that breath.

The youngster in her arms let out a small cough, and then with a pained sigh, it sat up, unsteadily. Nightbird patted at its scales, wiping away grit and blood, and found that the blood had stopped flowing. She looked into Vidofnir's eye and sniffled as she spoke. “You arrived just in time, it seems, to save your sibling.”

“Nonsense,” the dragon rumbled. “Thou hadst already done so.”

Nightbird scrubbed at her cheek, and swayed a little where she sat.

“Tcha.” Vidofnir's voice held a touch of wry humor now. “Thou hast spent thy energy quite recklessly. It is thee I must save, methinks, from thine own foolhardiness.”

The dragon touched Nightbird's shoulder with her snout, and a trickle of aether flowed from dragon to woman. “What is it about adventurers,” Vidofnir murmured, “that they throw themselves into the fray without a thought for their own well being...”

“You could say it is our calling,” Nightbird smiled.

In her lap, the youngster shook its wings out, and stretched. It flapped into the air, clearly sore, but capable of flying. Its siblings crowded around it for a moment. Vidofnir's gaze turned to them.

“Go back to thine nest, hatchlings. This place is not safe for thee, and thy mother is doubtless frantic.”

There were some whining whistles of protest from the four uninjured ones, but the lot of them flew away after only that token complaint. Once the youngsters had made themselves scarce, Vidofnir's attention fixed on Estinien.

“I am told thou hast business with me.”


	33. Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien just needs to have a little faith.

“I am told thou hast business with me.”

Estinien looked up into the white dragon's eyes and nodded once.

He told her, as he had told the dragons at Anyx Trine, of his vow, of his offer.

“Thou wouldst offer thy blood as a sacrifice to affirm a peace already sown,” Vidofnir's words were slow. “Thy death shalt not hasten the slow reconciliation of our peoples. There is very little value in killing thee, dragoon.”

“I know well the need for vengeance,” Estinien answered. “I know well the ways in which dragons suffer in their hearts. If my death would offer some small balm to that suffering...” He stood facing the dragon, hands empty, head down. “It is all I have left to give to you and yours.”

Vidofnir moved without warning. Nightbird gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out, as the white dragon knocked Estinien on his rump, shoving him with her snout. Her neck curved as she hissed into his face.

“By such _foolishness_ is the cycle of hatred perpetuated. Thou shalt not die by claw, nor by tooth, nor by dragon's flames. But I do curse thee, Estinien Wyrmblood.”

He stared up at her, leaned back on his hands, sprawled in the dirt.

“I curse thee to wander the world and know in full how much thou dost not deserve pity, nor mercy, nor tears,” Vidofnir growled. “I curse thee to live a long life, lonely or not as thine _own_ actions dictate. I curse thee to live with thy guilt and thy fear and thy regret, be it a handful of years or a century. My kind shall not grant thee the easy way out.”

She stepped back, wings spreading wide. “Thus is mine judgment. Thou art not welcome in these lands, dragoon. Leave.”

Nightbird wobbled to her feet as Vidofnir finished speaking. The dragon took to the air, throwing dust into their eyes for a moment.

When the dust had settled, Estinien stood up, and stepped over to Nightbird to lend her his shoulder.

“It seems we must needs pack our things,” he murmured to her.

She nodded, and let him help her back to their little camp.

Their birds were too agitated for flight, and finally Estinien hauled out a half-portion of greens for them both. “That should calm them down,” he told Nightbird. “It will take some little time...”

“That is all right with me,” she nodded. She had the bedroll in her lap, examining the long tear in it. “I would rather mend this and finish recovering, before we travel. It is early yet.”

Estinien brought out his own repair kit. Between the two of them, they were able to straighten and mend the bedroll by the time the chocobos were half way through their food.

Without conversation, they took care of those few camp chores that needed doing.

As they finished saddling their birds, Estinien looked up sharply. Nightbird noticed his expression and cocked her head, listening hard. She caught the soft sound of wings. Both of them turned to face the edge of the circle of pillars.

A small white shape flitted up, then ducked behind one of the pillars for a moment, before it peeked around the stone and then came into full view.

Nightbird's mouth opened in surprise. It was the little dragonet that had been so badly injured.

“Aren't you supposed to be in your nest?” Estinien's voice was dry. When Nightbird glanced at him, she saw a very small smile curving his lips. He crossed his arms. “Or have you not had enough excitement for one day?”

The little one bobbed in the air, a kind of aerial fidgeting, and then flapped closer to them. It landed on a large block of toppled masonry, and regarded them with bright eyes. “I wanted to speak to you.”

“Why?” asked Nightbird, before Estinien could open his mouth.

“We came because you are so strange, even for outsiders,” it answered. Its voice was high, piping, child like – but its speech was well formed, with none of the odd accent or halting phrases that Nightbird would have expected from most children. “You smell different from the other travelers. Very different.”

“I almost think you're saying that we stink,” Estinien commented.

“You do!” The dragonet spread its little wings. “A stench of magic and changes and mysteries! It made us all very curious!”

Nightbird smothered a laugh as Estinien's face turned rather red. She set her hand on his shoulder before he could move forward, but he still spluttered in irritation for a moment more.

“Why you little – ”

“Why don't we talk a little,” Nightbird suggested to the little dragon. “What are you called?”

The dragon leaped up and performed a little pirouette in the air. “Stigr, son of Vedrfolnir!” Then, the dragonet's wing-beats stuttered a moment, and he landed again, and ducked his head, bending his wing to cover his eyes for an instant. “Well. His _youngest_ son.”

Nightbird looked over at Estinien. The dragoon's face relaxed a little, and he was no longer red with anger, but he snorted. “Runt of the litter, eh?”

Stigr made a hissing sound, but did not argue.

Shaking her head, Nightbird tried again to guide the talk into less antagonistic waters. “Why are you here now, Stigr?” she asked. “You were hurt. You really ought to be resting.”

“But I had to come,” the youngster answered. “To say thank you. No mortal ever fought for us like that before, to protect us.” His golden eyes fixed on the petite bard. “No mortal has cried for one of our kind for a long, long time.”

He lifted off, and came close to Nightbird for a moment, brushing against her with his wings. She lifted her arm, prompted by something she could not have named, and the dragonet landed on her upper arm for a moment and touched her hair with his snout. “We're friends now,” he declared, with the same tone he might have used to inform her that the sky was blue. “And when I am big enough, I will come visit your city, like my kin have done.”

Nightbird's lips curved in a smile, charmed by the dragonet's directness, and his trust. “Well. Then I shall make sure to be ready for such a visit.”

The youngster made a noise in his throat, a kind of purring sound, and then flapped back over to the stone where he had first landed.

Estinien's brows were drawn down. Nightbird glanced at her lover for a moment, and then addressed the dragonet once more.

“Please, Stigr, explain what you mean about our scent. I've never thought of myself as being particularly _aromatic_.” She let humor color the last word.

“Well it's not a _smell_ smell, it's a – an _aura_ ,” Stigr clarified. “Dragons have more senses than you mortals do. For us it's like a smell, but it's not a smell for noses. You both smell of grief and pain and fear – but then, most mortals do.” The dragonet's wings shifted, a kind of shrug; clearly “most mortals” were not very interesting. “But _you_ , dragoon – you smell of all _kinds_ of things. Of Nidhogg, and yet not quite. You smell like the enemy, but also like a cousin to dragons.” The pitch of his voice went higher as the dragonet grew more excited. “ _And_ you smell of change-magic! Are you going to transform, like some of Iceheart's people learned to do?”

Estinien leaned away from the creature. “Are you telling me I am going to turn into a dragon?”

Stigr tilted his head, and his wings lowered. “How should I know what you're going to turn into?” he asked. “Do you _want_ to turn into a dragon?”

For a long moment the dragoon stared at the little one. “...No.” Estinien took a long breath, and let it out again in a sigh. “I don't want to be a dragon again.”

“Oh.” The youngster seemed to contemplate that for a moment. “Why not?” He stretched out his wings, raising up on his hind legs. “Being a dragon is a good thing.”

“For you, it is.” There was no sarcasm in Estinien's voice now. He looked away from Stigr, and from Nightbird, and crossed his arms. “For me... I don't want to be like Nidhogg. He hurt too many, and I am...” The Elezen swallowed hard, and his voice was harsh. “I do not trust that Nidhogg is really gone. I don't want him to come back. Ever.”

He wasn't about to admit to this little pipsqueak of a dragon that he was _afraid_.

Nightbird's hand on his shoulder tightened. After a moment, Estinien covered her hand with his own, accepting her comfort without speaking.

Stigr watched him for a time, as silence stretched out among them. Then, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, he said, “Then don't become Nidhogg.”

Estinien's mouth twisted. “It's not that simple.”

“Men make things complicated for themselves,” Stigr sighed, sounding as if he were quoting someone. Then he took off and flew over to hover in front of the dragoon. Blue eyes met gold. “It _is_ that simple,” Stigr told the Elezen. “Every dragon knows it. Changing happens because we _want_ it to happen. No one can change you unless you let them, after all.”

Estinien's jaw went slack for a moment as he regarded the little dragon with astonishment.

Stigr cocked his head. “Why don't you mortals know that?”

“I think perhaps it is a wisdom that most mortals don't find for themselves,” Nightbird answered. She thought about all the good folk of Ishgard, comfortable in their ways, their habits. Terrified of change. “And for some, change is all too frightening, because it requires trust of a sort that is not easily found.”

“A leap of faith,” Estinien nodded. His eyes were thoughtful. “Huh. Who would have thought a mere infant would be schooling me in such things.”

Nightbird's mouth quirked, but she didn't comment.

All three of them looked up, as a screech echoed in the distance.

“Oh, bother.” Stigr heaved a big sigh. “Mother is back. I have to go.”

He lifted off from the stone, and circled round the two of them once before flying away, at a much faster speed than he had arrived.

His voice drifted back to them. “Goodbye!”

“Well.” Nightbird patted her lover's shoulder and moved towards her bird. “That was...unusual.”

Estinien grunted in reply, but he too stepped over to his bird.

They mounted up, and took to the sky.

“Where are we bound, now?” Nightbird asked.

“The Sea of Clouds,” Estinien answered, “and from there, to Azys Lla.”

Then he fell silent, and Nightbird let him be. She could feel, in the back of her mind, that he was thinking very hard. She could only pray that his thoughts were tending in a direction away from the fear and self-loathing, this time.

It took them quite some time to reach the Sea of Clouds, but when they arrived at Camp Cloudtop, Nightbird simply stood still on the height and gazed out across the weird landscape. Estinien returned to her side, having spoken briefly with the watch captain, and stood at her shoulder.

“Have you never been here?”

“Not once,” she answered. “It's so...strange. Wild, and beautiful, but...”

“Hang on to that thought,” he told her, a hint of his old sarcastic humor flashing across his face. “It will get a great deal stranger soon.”

She started to mount, and Estinien held up one hand. “Come along,” he told her. “We're hitching a ride there.”

Mystified, Nightbird took her bird's reins and followed the dragoon.

When she saw the airship, she blinked rapidly a few times, then lowered her eyes.

At first, the white haired man at the pilot's wheel seemed not to notice her. She was ushered aboard right along with Estinien, with no real commentary from the three engineers; only a cheery “Hullo!” from Wedge.

But as they settled into steady flight, Cid handed his spot over to Biggs, and casually stepped over to the railing to stand beside Nightbird.

“Well well,” he said. “Long time no see, Kevala.”

Estinien, standing on the other side of her, peered down at her. “You know each other?”

Nightbird's eyes were on the clouds. “Cid was working alongside some researchers at a place called the Crystal Tower,” she answered. “I was among those researchers...for a time.”

“You can't really think that I would have forgotten the manner in which you left the project?” Cid's voice was gentle. “I am glad to see that you are well, Nightbird.”

She turned her head towards him a fraction, her eyes sliding to glance at him. But he did not allow her to only peek at him. She found herself meeting his steady gaze, though she shivered as she did so.

But there was no censure there, and no hint that he wanted to discuss the painful events that he had witnessed. Only an honest and kind concern.

She managed a small smile. “I am indeed well. I have been living in Ishgard for some time.”

“So I see. Have you heard from any of the Sons since...?”

She shook her head, quickly. “No. I have not been back to the Toll since that time, either. It has been...a long road, to recovery.” She let her hand cover Estinien's on the railing. “But I am, as I said, well enough now.”

Cid was no fool. He smiled a little, and let the matter go. “Well. We will reach our destination soon enough. The Enterprise is faster than ever, and this time we won't have any opposition to our arrival.”

With that, he wandered off to consult with the shorter engineer over some dials and readouts.

“What kind of project were you working on?” Estinien asked.

“Exploration, excavation, that sort of thing.” She took a long breath. “It...was really only a year or so in the past, but it feels a great deal longer than that. A very great deal longer.” She bowed her head.

He could see that there was more to the story than that. But he had long ago learned when someone didn't want to talk about their past. The dragoon turned his hand over, tangling his fingers with hers, and didn't speak again.

Azys Lla had not changed a bit. Estinien's lip curled as he regarded the place. Still unnatural and twisted. The very rocks and trees were bent into tortured shapes, and seemed to bleed in colors that should not exist. Add in the various monsters and automatons that crept and crawled and clattered about on that distorted landscape, and one had a very respectable recipe for nightmares.

He glanced down at Nightbird. Her hands on the railing were tense, and her eyes were narrowed as they approached the great golden egg-shaped oddity that was Helix. He had never seen her expression so closed-off. Something was troubling her, and he had a suspicion that it was not the unwelcoming aspect of the island.

Cid brought the Enterprise up against the dock with a flourish and Biggs leaped down to make the airship fast to the mooring. Estinien waved once to the white haired engineer, and then collected his bird and Nightbird's.

They did not speak, and the engineers gave them only a set of friendly waves – already hurrying to accomplish whatever task had brought them to Azys Lla.

Estinien led Nightbird out across the long metal docking area, and then down along the second “pier” of the structure.

Nightbird looked around, trying hard to ignore the ache in her chest. Raha would have had a fit over this place, she thought, and then shunted that thought away, forcing it back down to join all the other thoughts and memories to do with her time at the Crystal Tower. The things she had learned then were of no use to her now. The feelings and the memories were yet too painful to contemplate directly.

She turned her focus outward, taking in the otherworldly sky and the tainted look of the land. The place was horrifying, not least because she could sense, dimly, how all life on the flying island had been chained, harnessed, _enslaved_ to the whims and purposes of a people long dead.

Then she looked at Estinien. He stood staring out at the sky, and then he pulled a carefully wrapped bundle from his bag.

“Ysayle died here,” he said quietly, and then Nightbird's eyes began to ache, and she went to her knees as she felt her Echo take her.

Nightbird opened her eyes to find herself cradled close to Estinien's chest. She shifted, pressing her face into his jerkin for a moment, and he hugged her just a little tighter. “Are you well?”

“A vision,” she murmured. “Ysayle...fought very bravely.” She had heard Alphinaud's description of that battle. Seeing it – it was very different.

“Do all you Warriors of Light have such fainting spells?” he asked, his tone sharp with relief and sarcasm.

She laughed. “I suppose. It has not happened to me for a very long time.” She tipped her head back to look up at his face. “You could not have saved her, Estinien.”

“I know.” His expression was terrible to behold, and most would have assumed that the dragoon was very angry. But Nightbird knew him and loved him, as no other did. She knew that the black look on his face was a screen for the grief and the pain that assailed him.

She shifted again, sitting up, and he let her go. Looking around, she saw the lilies lying on the ground where Estinien had set them down to tend to her. She got to her feet, and bent to pick them up.

“Let us honor her,” she said to her lover.

Together they laid the lilies on the metal plating, tucking the stems down into the joins between plates to ensure they did not blow away in the strong headwind. Then, Nightbird recited a prayer for the dead, while Estinien's hands rested on her shoulders.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, simply kneeling together, until at last Estinien cleared his throat. “There is one more place I wish to see before we leave this island.”

“Very well.” Nightbird stood. “I will follow you.”

Their birds tossed their heads as they mounted, and whistled uneasily as they took flight. For all their complaint, though, both chocobos obeyed their riders, as if they understood that soon they would be quit of this place.

Estinien brought his bird close to the gigantic ship in the center of Azys Lla, but he did not land there. Instead he turned aside and flew along the length of the massive hull, as if searching for something along the belly of the structure. Nightbird understood what he was looking for when she saw the great, gaping hole in the side of the ship. She kept a sharp eye on her bird, and hung back a little when Estinien edged closer. There were many small machines crawling all over the hull, and at least as many smaller ones buzzing about in the air all around the damaged spot. She could see sparks as some of the automatons worked to mend the broken pieces, or cut away damaged bits. A large sphere with many green lines of light across its surface hovered in the middle of the activity, and occasionally spat out bursts of strange bleeps and klaxons, to which all the smaller machina responded. Giving orders, perhaps? Nightbird's curiosity was piqued despite herself. She had seen some few such spheres before – Allagan nodes, Raha had called them. The things were nearly sentient, if his theories were correct...

She stopped her train of thought there. Estinien was heading back towards her, and she guided her bird to follow him as he flew away from the great, dark ship, and towards a chunk of floating island that looked almost normal – if one ignored the veils of purple aether floating in the air and weaving among the wind-twisted trees.

He landed near a shallow stream but did not dismount. Nightbird brought her bird down, and then paced up to him, so that she could face him. Her bird stopped close enough to him that their knees almost touched.

The dragoon's knuckles were white on his reins. Nightbird put her hand out and covered one of his. “Talk to me, Estinien. Please.”

“I didn't remember,” he murmured. “I dreamed of how he took me, and I didn't remember how he tore his way out of that accursed Allagan machine. But when I saw it...” He shook his head and fell silent. His eyes seemed to look inward, and Nightbird simply sat, holding his hand lightly.

The water flowing beside them made a soft music, and in this place, the wind seemed barely present – a mere whisper rather than the low moan it had been at the strange dock where they'd entered. The whole area seemed almost locked in stasis. Nothing disturbed them, and there was no real way to tell the passing of time.

But at last Estinien sat up straighter, and turned his focus outward again, his eyes meeting Nightbird's.

“If even this place can...heal,” he said to her, “then perhaps it is not so much of a leap of faith after all, that I might do so as well.”

She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

He lifted their hands, and kissed the back of hers. Then he leaned forward and claimed her mouth, a soft brief press of lips to lips.

“Where away now, my love?” she asked him.

“Home.”

It was the middle of the night when they returned once more to Fortemps Manor.

But Nightbird knew her way around, now, and even the handful of servants who remained awake were familiar with her. She led Estinien to her suite, without speaking, until the door was shut and locked behind them.

She watched him for a moment, as he surveyed the sitting room.

“Are you too weary for a bath, my dragoon?” she asked him, letting her voice carry warmth and a hint of concern.

He turned to look at her, and shook his head. “I am tired, but not tired enough to tolerate smelling like this,” he answered, with a quiet laugh.

She went into the bathing chamber, Estinien at her heels. He made a sound of appreciation as he paused in the doorway and glanced around. “Almost nicer than Aymeric's place,” he commented.

Nightbird laughed at that. “A most high compliment indeed.” Her eyes twinkled at him as she started the hot water to fill up the tub. “And you won't have to parade about any hallways naked this time.”

That got a grin and a real laugh from him.

They bathed without hurrying, hands gentle on each other. By the time they were drying each other's backs, Nightbird felt more relaxed than she had for weeks and weeks.

She took him into her bedroom, and they climbed into the bed. Memory brushed across Nightbird for a moment – a different midnight, and her friends lying in this bed with her.

She lay on her side and ran her fingers through Estinien's silver hair – the strands still damp from their bath. He captured her hand, and kissed her fingers, before tugging her close. She pressed against him willingly, her mouth opening for him, sighing at the gentle pleasure of his tongue stroking into her.

He placed her hand against his manhood, in silent demand, and she smiled against his mouth and curled her fingers around his cock. She did not have to stroke him for long before he was moaning for her, hands wandering in a fitful pattern – over her breasts, then to her shoulders, down her back to her tail; stroking the base of her tail very lightly, and then moving on to cup and knead her buttocks before drifting back up along her ribs to once more caress her breasts.

Her whole body quivered with wanting. She rubbed one foot against his calf, and stroked his cock a little faster. When he touched her tail again, she hummed with pleasure.

The sound made Estinien groan – made him feel as if his very bones thrummed in answer to her. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her closer, _closer._ All fear, all doubt, was washed away on the flood of need – not just need for her body. Not anymore.

He reached for her with his aether, as he had before, whispering to her. “Show me, little bird...show me what to do. Make me yours...”

She froze for an instant, her breath catching, and leaned back to meet his eyes.

He cupped her cheeks, and let his aether speak for him. He let his longing for her show; let her see the aching loneliness that threatened to suck him under, as it had always done. Hatred and revenge had been his anchors against solitude, and grief, and doubt. He had relinquished both hatred and revenge...and now he craved a different kind of anchor.

“Hold me,” he begged her, his lips moving against hers. “ _Claim me_ – ”

Nightbird made a little, desperate mewl in her throat, and then she was twining around him, clasping him to her tightly, and her aether crashed against his own, tangling even as her fingers knotted in his hair and her tongue fenced with his.

As she had done before, she reached within the dragoon and touched the place where a second soul fitfully slept. But this time she did not grasp, did not command. This time, she  _appealed_ to that restless presence.

It did not respond the way Pale's dragon soul had done. There were no words. There were no questions. There was only a roar, heard only in their minds, and the blue flames rising from Estinien's skin, enveloping them both, overflowing their bodies, a torrent of fire that swirled and tugged as if it would devour them.

There was no pain, no fear – there was only the fire and the dragon's voice, and harmonizing with that elemental sound, Nightbird's own voice.

Their bodies moved even as their aether whirled, spiraling tighter and tighter. Estinien lay her on her back, and she opened her legs to him, her fingers still in his hair. He cradled her hips in his hands, and the tip of his manhood rested at her entrance. He could feel how open, how ready, how slick she was for him, but he paused, waiting, his eyes fixed on her face.

The fire and the song left no room in her mind for anything else but completion. Nightbird's arms tugged him close even as her legs wrapped around his waist. She pulled him down, and as he began to enter her, she sang his name.

He hilted within her and paused once more, eyes shut tight, breathing hard. Everything in him demanded that he move, but he resisted, wanting to savor this moment as long as he could – this moment, when at last he was truly home once more. He pressed his face against her neck and moaned.

“Fury, how I love you.”

As the words had been a key, and his soul the lock, he felt a shift within himself.

His hips began to thrust, long slow strokes that wrung sighs from the woman beneath him. He felt that place inside of him, the place where Nightbird had touched him before; felt it transform, stretch, and then meld with a place within Nightbird's soul.

The connection strengthened with every groan, every stroke of his cock into her body, every kiss, every touch, everything bringing them closer, closer, closer still.

He labored for breath, fighting to control his pace. But he was doomed to lose this fight: for as their souls and aether twined ever more tightly he could feel her pleasure as if it were his own.

“Don't hold back,” Nightbird gasped, tossing her head on the pillow. “Give me all of you – Estinien, please!”

She clutched him to her, nails scoring his shoulders, and as he began to slam into her, she keened aloud. He felt her fangs sink into the meat of his shoulder and a deep groan rattled through him – and then he was coming, gasping and shuddering and utterly undone. Beneath him, Nightbird writhed, her shriek muffled against his flesh, her sex clenching hard on him even as her thighs clamped around him almost hard enough to hurt.

Around them, the dragon fire winked out, and they collapsed together in a tangle of limbs.

Estinien moved just enough to shift his weight off of her, and tucked her head under his chin.

Nightbird clung to him, chest heaving, eyes closed as tears leaked from beneath her eyelids.

She could hear him – feel him, soul to soul, resonating. The bond was complete.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was in part inspired and enabled by  
> Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club  
> Please come and join if you've a mind to do so!  
> https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj


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